


Not a Client

by edy



Category: Twenty One Pilots
Genre: Alternate Universe, Casual Sex, Coming Out, F/M, M/M, Minor Violence, Multi, Nonbinary Character, Orgies, Other, Paranoia, Past Abuse, Pining, Public Sex, Recreational Drug Use, Sex Work, Slut Shaming, Trans Character, Transphobia, Victim Blaming
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-29
Updated: 2016-08-29
Packaged: 2018-08-11 16:42:09
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 40,180
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7900135
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/edy/pseuds/edy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><em>my name is tyler joseph,</em> the post reads, <em>and if you see this, then i am in trouble. i have been unable to gain access to my queue to remove this. please, if you see this, call 911.</em></p>
            </blockquote>





	Not a Client

**Author's Note:**

> translation into русский available: [Not a Client](https://ficbook.net/readfic/5394442) by [Авер](https://ficbook.net/authors/329431)

He has an hour before his phone lights up and vibrates from social media notifications, calls, and text messages. The thought of allowing it to happen passes through his head for a moment, and for that moment, he finds it a little easier to breathe. Yet he pushes himself to return to square one, to allow his systems to go back to shaking from nerves and chill, to flick through the Wi-Fi networks and connect to whatever's free. He knows he should wait until he's safely at home, but the post in his blog's queue doesn't talk about him coming home unscathed. It's about him going to work, still at work, still at work, why is he still at work, please leave, something happened, something happened, help, help, _help_.

 _my name is tyler joseph,_ the post reads, _and if you see this, then i am in trouble. i have been unable to gain access to my queue to remove this. please, if you see this, call 911._

It goes on to list an address and some telephone numbers people can call after dialing emergency services. Out of sheer spite, he includes his parents' numbers and his siblings', too, particularly his brother Zack because he knows it will hurt him the most to have strangers call about his "big brother".

This is a ritual he does every time before he goes to work. He usually sits on his bed, an old stuffed bunny to his chest, his phone the only light production in this dark and unorganized room. He double checks everything, carefully inputting any and all appropriate tags so this post has the potential to be seen by those with even the most miniscule blogs. If the address is wrong, by a letter or a number, he could wind up not being saved; his body may never be recovered. He's thought about "forgetting" doing a post like this more than once, has decided it would just be better for everybody involved if he were to go to someone's house and die there. When he thinks about this happening, he finds it a little easier to breathe.

If he were to let this post publish, or if he were to forget to type one up, he knows all hell would break loose. He doesn't need a big ego to admit he has a large follower count. _Someone_ will notice the post and alert the authorities and call up his mom or brother to see if everything's okay. He put his mom at the top, then his brother because he would love to die with their flabbergasted expressions being the last coherent thought in his mind. "No, no, what are you talking about?" his mom will say. "I don't have a big _brother_ ," Zack will say. "I don't believe you," they will echo, and they will hang up, and he will be dying from blood loss or lack of oxygen or whatever vile method his client for the day cooks up.

Not that all his clientele is violent, no—that's doing them an injustice. He's dealt with monsters a few times, sure, but the work he tends to attract are typical and not out of the ordinary. Things like, "Kinda want a blowjob and a finger up my ass," or "Eat me out because my husband's out of town and he has no idea where my clit is even after I showed him a dozen times now," or "Don't make a sound while I slide my big cock inside you"—they're _never_ as big as they say—or "Lay in bed with me and let's watch bad movies," or his favorite, "I'm going to get you off so many times you're going to give up sex work and maintain a monogamous relationship with me and only me until we both grow old and gray and eventually die and we'll share a tombstone and lay side by side as eternal lovers."

Needless to say, that customer never got him off. He left disappointed, but his pockets were heavier with rolls of twenty dollar bills.

Tonight, he helped a married and very confused and nervous man enter the world of voyeurism, meaning his wife watched. Their only request? _Wear a skirt._ She sat on the bed with them, drinking a glass of wine and studying each of them. "He likes being spanked," she offered, "and he likes having his nipples twisted."

Her husband stammered, but she continued, "If he tells you to stop, don't stop. Our safeword is 'peas and carrots'."

When her husband finished, she brought the focus to herself, drawing him in with a long neck and trimmed fingernails. "I know we didn't agree on this initially," she said, her tone not unlike her now indisposed husband stretched atop the bed. "But could you…?"

And he stood, and she backed into the corner of the room, his hands pushing up her nightie while her hands fiddled with his skirt. "Like this?" he asked, and she could only nod as his fingers and her fingers stroked and stroked until they both crumpled into a dripping mess of sensitivity. At the end, he never felt more alive, and a pleat in his skirt became a rip. His thigh was open to the public, and he fought with it as he left their house. He tried to hold it together, clutching the soft black fabric while he climbed onto a bus and kept his head down low. Even with his hood pulled over his face, he still feared violence. He hadn't shaved his legs.

His skirt hangs freely now, his hands favoring the weight of his cell phone. Besides, he's inside a bar that provides free Wi-Fi and genuine smiles from bartenders. He feels safe here, despite it not being his home. His thumb clicks onto his queue and deletes the post informing any readers of his whereabouts. When he returns home, he thinks he'll get on his webcam and perform. He'll be intoxicated, by then—he hopes. The bartender keeps smiling at him, giving him attention, but refusing to acknowledge his presence when he asks for something to drink. Perhaps they see something he doesn't. He sits at the bar, shivering, his legs freezing cold, and his thigh dark and hairy and open to any patron that gets near him. Unsuccessful, but hopeful all the same, he tries tugging his sweatshirt further down his body. It's long in the first place, better suited for broader shoulders and a fuller chest, though it's stubborn. Loosely it falls from his figure like a robe. In any other moment, he would cherish this sensation, but tonight, where it's cold, his skirt is torn, and people are still invoking "well, what were you wearing?", he could not be more uncomfortable.

On this bar stool, a foot on the rung while the other swings with no care, he regrets going out. He needs money, and he hates that the most. His apartment isn't nice in the slightest, often accustomed to drafts and rude neighbors, but, what's the saying, he got what he paid for. At the time, he thought it was great—a motherfucking paradise. But also at the time, he had screamed at his mother to the point of his voice turning raw. She wanted him to move out. She suspected he was doing _bad things_ under her roof. She said Zack told her some things. He loves Zack. He loves Zack _to death_ , but Zack is a terrible person. Zack is intolerant, and Zack would absolutely lose his fucking mind if he knew what his big brother was up to nowadays. But no, he wouldn't because he'd say he didn't have a big brother. And that's why Zack is number two on his to-call list, right after his mom. He's debated on putting Zack at the top, just so he could drop dead from an early heart attack, but ultimately he decided his mother needed to be at the top because, _duh_ , that's his mom.

The bartender smiles at him, and he waves them over. "Can I get—?"

Nothing.

He gently beats his phone into the countertop, making the "Undo Move" option appear on the screen. He ignores it. He ignores it all.

The bar's capacity levels raises a couple minutes past midnight, filling in with girls with their friends, clothed in thin jackets and short dresses. They look so cute. His heart stops in his chest, and he wishes it doesn't, but it does. One of them catches his eye, and he quickly turns away, shoulders hunching, trying to make himself appear smaller. It doesn't work. She approaches him, her hand delicate on the space between his shoulder blades. "Hi," she greets, her fingers now curling to scratch his back. It feels good. It feels so good.

"Hey," he says.

His voice surprises her. His hood is still pulled up, concealing most of his features, but she's in a close enough proximity now to know her first assumptions about him are most definitely false. It doesn't stop her, though. She grins and continues to scratch his back. "You looked lonely over here. Do you want to join me and my friends? What's your name?"

Her friends are just as pretty as her. His chest feels tight. He shakes his head. "Tyler… I'm fine here. Thanks."

"It's not a problem, Tyler," she says, then moves her hand. The comfort is gone. The stability is gone. When she leaves to return to her friends, he hears laughter, and he thinks it would hurt more if they weren't laughing at him.

He begins to shake again, his phone's case creaking loudly as his grip tightens. His screen lights up, a single notification coming in—an email, a new client, _you're a twink, right?_

The Wi-Fi signal is weak in here, so he doesn't feel guilty disconnecting from it completely.

"Hey," he tries again, waving at the bartender. "Please."

No response, at least not from the person who deals in alcohol. A man hops into the stool next to Tyler, far too cheerful to inhabit a dump like this place. Whatever aura he's invoking seems to do the job; the bartender immediately flutters toward him, asking him what he wants. "Just a Coke," the man says, and the bartender's eyebrow goes to their hairline, but they give the man a Coke and go back to the other side of the bar, where the girls from before are munching on crackers. They occasionally meet Tyler's gaze and wiggle their fingers. Tyler's insides are on fire.

Sipping at his Coke, finger holding his straw in place, the man glances at Tyler. His eyes don't stray. Dressed in a camouflage jacket and a hat twisted backwards, he is the most ordinary person in this bar. He belongs and doesn't belong. Tyler frowns at him, and he frowns at Tyler. Only then do his eyes stray. Nothing passes over his face. To Tyler, it's the best thing that could possibly happen. He initiates the conversation this time, something he never does. His words get tied up; he should have expected as much. A squeak vaguely resembling the sound of "hello" leaves his lips.

The man should be laughing at him, but he isn't, he _doesn't_ , and Tyler finds that very odd. "How's it going?" he asks, his feet perched on the top rung of the stool. From the holes in his skinny jeans, his knees poke through, pale skin almost blinding if they were not coated with dark body hair.

"I'm fine," Tyler says for the second time that night. "What 'bout you?"

"Could be better, honestly"—shaking his head—"I'm Josh, by the way."

"Tyler."

They shake hands, and then return to their respective spaces, Josh drinking his Coke and Tyler picking at the back of his phone case. It's peeling. Tyler thinks of it like a scab.

Josh finishes his Coke and slides it from him, a streak of condensation clinging to the surface of the counter with each inch away. "What are you doing here so late?"

Tyler shrugs. "What 'bout you?"

Josh shrugs, too.

The bartender returns. "Want another?" They gesture toward Josh's glass. "Or do you want something harder?"

"No, thank you. I'm okay." Josh picks at his thumb. Tyler watches him. Blood appears. Josh hides it with his jacket sleeve, tugging it down until his hand is gone from view. "I, uh, I like your skirt."

Tyler is vaguely aware he is wearing nothing beneath his skirt. The rip in the side comes up too far. There are goosebumps all over his body. Tyler blames himself. Nothing can make him hotter than lifting up his skirt and bending him over the nearest piece of furniture and—

"Thanks," Tyler mumbles, grabbing at the two torn edges and holding them together again.

"What happened?" Josh points, the tip of his index finger barely showing from his sleeve still pulled over his hand. "I mean, um… I hope that wasn't…" He can't form the words, doesn't want to say the words.

Tyler closes his eyes. "It was consensual."

"Oh, right. That's good." Josh laughs. He clears his throat. "I can sew. Not that… you'd even—um, sorry. That wasn't _cool_." Josh's hair is a faded pink beneath that baseball cap. He scratches his scalp, face screwed up in absolute embarrassment. "Sorry. I don't know why I… Forget I said anything."

Tyler can't forget. He wants to forget a lot of things, but he can't forget this. "What, were you offering to fix my skirt for me?"

A pause. "Y-yeah."

"You can. Since you can sew."

"Yeah. Since I can sew."

The post would be on his blog now. His mom's voice is in his ear, wondering what he was up to, and then there's Zack, more hysterical and concerned. "What do you mean my big brother is in danger? I don't have a big _brother_." Tyler stands on the side of the road, cigarette in his fingers, waiting to be lit. Absently, he flicks his lighter and lets the wind eat it. Would his brother even care if he were to die? Would he show up to the funeral and demand answers for questions he never knew existed? Their mom would sit there in her nicest dress and her husband holding her hand. "It'll be okay," he would say because he's confused, too, and no one wants to talk about the elephant in the room. Tyler likes to think his sister would be caring. She would know. She would talk and talk about this until their parents are forced to get a grave with the right name. Tyler doesn't care about how he'd be buried in a dress. He hopes it'd be either red or black. Maybe blue.

"Need help with that?" Josh asks, exiting the bar and taking the space by Tyler's side, the side where his skirt is ripped, the side where his thigh is dark and cold and needs a hand to grab it and squeeze and squeeze. Josh is by Tyler's side, looking at Tyler's face and pointedly not at the tear in his clothing.

Tyler shakes his head. He sticks the lighter back in his hoodie pocket and breaks the cigarette in half. "You drive? I'm cold." He's been cold for hours. He doesn't tell Josh this, but Josh knows. Josh is taking off his jacket. Tyler shakes his head again. "Stop."

"Well, I didn't drive, and you can't walk around like this." Josh has on a sweatshirt under that jacket. He won't be that cold.

"No. I said stop." Tyler steps backward.

Josh steps forward. "Please?" The camouflage in his hands looks warm, like something Tyler can get lost into with no chance of recovering. Josh's thumb isn't bleeding anymore; it's dry, flaky. "You can put it on yourself. I won't touch you."

 _I won't touch you_. Tyler presses his lips together. "Give it to me." When Josh passes it over, Tyler slings it around, tying it, the knot tight on his stomach. This wouldn't be a problem if Tyler had worn leggings or tights or _something_ or—no, this wouldn't be a problem if the wife hadn't ripped his skirt.

"So, you really didn't drive?"

"Nope. Took the bus."

"Me, too. Actually."

Josh smiles. Why does he smile? "That's cool."

Leaving bars with strangers is not unfamiliar to Tyler. If he wasn't dropping to his knees in a bathroom stall or trying to avoid his foot slipping into the toilet, he would be following the stranger home and doing the same, albeit in a much cleaner—and hopefully safer—environment. It's not that Tyler doesn't like exchanging saliva and other bodily fluids in the semi-privacy of the restroom; no, he's rather fond of those experiences. When he set eyes on Josh, Tyler will admit he thought he'd be pulled into a stall and shoved to the ground or into the toilet paper dispenser as Josh's hands became fists as he clung to the fabric of Tyler's skirt. Now, Tyler expects Josh will be doing the very same, but in his bedroom. That must be why he's inviting Tyler back to his place, his phenomenal sewing skills a ruse. Tyler has the fleeting thought of turning onto his heel and going in the other direction, but Josh's jacket is a snug reminder on his hips, anchoring him in place as they wait for a bus at the corner of the street. Josh is leaned against a streetlamp, Tyler in front of him with arms over his chest and his head bent low. Conversations come to nothing, and Tyler regrets snapping his cigarette in half.

What would have happened if he agreed to sit with the girl and her friends? Bubbly, enthusiastic, Tyler would have only felt out of place if he were with them. He likes them, though, from afar, and wonders if the one who had come up to invite him over might have wanted to be pulled into a bathroom stall with him. She could have lifted his skirt while he lifted her dress, and they would crumble to the sticky tile floor like he did with the wife as her husband weakly fought the handcuffs around his wrists in his slumber.

Tyler can ask her now, if he wanted. She and her friends are exiting the bar, holding onto their heels and passing out pairs of flats one of them had packed for their night out. Tyler watches them, careful eyes, and Josh watches him. "Do you know them?" he asks, his tone measured and low, and getting louder at Tyler's retreating figure. "I'll be here, then, yeah?" he says, and Tyler waves his hand.

They meet halfway. She shifts her weight from side to side, from leg to leg. She gives a little point at Josh, and then drags it down to the jacket around Tyler's hips. "I was gonna ask you again," she says, "but you're with him tonight, aren't you?"

Josh is oblivious. Tyler shrugs.

She continues, fiddling at something in her purse. "Will this change your mind?" Four bills are in her hand, hundreds, and she fans them out and smiles at Tyler, coyly, expecting. There's something else behind her eyes; Tyler has seen the look of built-up disappointment before.

"Didn't know you _knew_ me," he mumbles.

"I don't, but my friend does."

Tyler looks from her and the money in her hands. "So, you and your friends. Not just you."

"Not just me." She frowns. "You'd be okay with that, right?"

"I don't do this like that anymore," he says, shaking his head. "You have to fill out a form and email it to me, and then I'll see when I'm available and if I'm up to it."

The money disappears into her purse, her head nodding along. "Form, email, wait—got it." She doesn't sound upset. She sounds _understanding_. Guilt gnaws on his stomach. He needs to do something, his legs wobble, and he can't do _anything_. Dropping to his knees is his gut response. They're out in the open, hands rubbing arms to warm up, blinking long eyelashes, smiling. She's smiling. He's smiling. "Sorry for coming up to you like that. It was wrong."

"No, no… it's fine." Tyler bites into his cheek. "I'm used to…" _No_. "You were respectful."

"Tyler!" Josh calls. The bus has arrived. He's waiting for Tyler before getting on.

Her eyes are staring at Josh, heavy-lidded with suspicion, with thoughts of what tonight could have been. Tyler sees it on her tongue, hears it in his ears. _What is he then, if you "don't do this like that anymore"? Tyler, who is he? You're wearing his jacket_. _Tyler._ "Tyler," she says, and skims her fingers along his forearm briefly. "Take care." Behind her, her friends are lighting cigarettes. One with a blue dress and a short haircut picks up Tyler's broken cigarette and inspects it closely, asking the two other girls around her if it'd be clean enough to smoke. Tyler takes that as his leave.

"We went to high school together," he says to Josh, and Josh nods and doesn't question it.

Josh leads the way onto the bus, Tyler following like a sheepdog. He's never climbed onto the bus to go home with someone—too public and embarrassing to his partner for the night. No, they want the security of their car, so they can pull over at any moment to stick fingers inside Tyler's mouth or between his legs. Josh is different. Josh isn't like that, Tyler hopes. Maybe Josh knows who Tyler is, has seen glimpses of his face or body on the Internet and wanted to try him on for size. Would Josh be rough? Would the hands on Tyler's skirt go up to his neck as they milked the last breath from his body? How would he be saved with no post in his queue to publish? _haha sorry,_ Tyler can see it now, _i went into a bar after work and got myself fucking tangled up with a boy with pink hair and a camouflage jacket. if you're reading this, i'm dead! and i deserve it for not being careful, for being an idiot, for trusting a boy with fucking pink hair too easily!_ But Tyler can't see it, not totally because he wouldn't type up a post like that. The most he would do is text a friend, inform them of what's going on. _call me if you don't hear from me in an hour_. Tyler does that as he sits next to Josh, body angled away to shield the message from wandering eyes.

 _hey,_ Tyler starts, _i'm currently on my way to some guy's place. his name is josh. i don't know his last name, but he has pink hair. he said he was going to sew my skirt, so i don't expect anything will happen. please call me in an hour, just in case._ Tyler sends it to Mark, Mark who lives in the same apartment complex as Tyler, who begged the landlord to let Tyler stay free of charge for a week, for two weeks, just until he was able to get back on his feet and find a job. When Tyler lived with his parents, he did strictly cam work. When he moved out, he went further. Mark suggested it. That's why Mark is number three on Tyler's to-call list.

After returning his phone into the kangaroo pocket of his hoodie, Tyler tries to straighten up like he wasn't hiding from Josh seconds ago. Josh doesn't seem to notice. He's on his own phone, slumped in his seat so a knee presses into the seats in front of them. His hat is off his head, fingers busy twirling an already curly strand. The impulse to slump back with Josh and see what he's doing on his phone overwhelms Tyler. He manages to shrug it away with a furious shake of his head and a constant mental belittling of himself. _Hypocrite, hypocrite, hypocrite_. Tyler wants to know Josh's secrets, wants to know what he has to hide. Tyler thinks he could tell Josh his own, in time. Now isn't the time. Now is the time to sit still and act like another person riding the bus home. No matter his current state of dress or the man he's sitting beside, Tyler is like anybody else, even if his anxiety is off the rocks and forces him to shrink into himself as if he were a ragdoll. Josh doesn't notice again. He's on his phone, both hands on it now as he types something. Does he have Twitter? A personal blog? Would he tell his followers he's hoping to get lucky tonight with the freak in a ripped pleated skirt?

Tyler shakes his head again. He looks ahead.

The bus is almost empty; a handful of people are spread out. Tyler and Josh are the only ones sitting on the same bench. Tyler stares at women with still-voluminous hair and men with shirts untucked and ties undone and everybody else with tired eyes and earbuds in and wanting to be left alone. Tyler looks over at Josh and finds his eyes are tired, too, and if Tyler were not sitting next to him and instead was occupying a seat across from him or somewhere in the back, Tyler would have left him alone. Tyler doesn't let his eyes hold contact on any one person for that long. He doesn't like it when it's being done to him, so he thinks it's common courtesy to _not stare_. He stares, though; he can't help it when it happens. _Hypocrite, hypocrite, hypocrite_. He tries to act like nothing is up when he's caught, and typically others do the same. So, when Tyler catches eyes with a man sitting two seats in front of them, he expects him to guiltily look away, rub the back of his neck, and stare at the floor for the remainder of his ride. He doesn't. He won't stop staring at Tyler. Tyler lowers his head and looks from the corner of his eye and does everything he can do from his seat to not lose his composure.

Because he recognizes the guy. Tyler was spreading his legs for him not even a week ago, arching his back from the bed and declaring to the world that this guy was the best he's ever had. Tyler says that for everybody, if they ask for it. He asked for it. "Oh, yeah, I'm the best, aren't I?" he asked, his cock thick and throbbing inside of Tyler. "You're going to come back to me every weekend, yeah? Begging for me to give it to you." Tyler hid his face in the crook of the man's neck and nodded and rolled his hips and rolled his eyes and left with more money than he asked for and a fucking puddle in his pants. Despite what he said during sex, the man never managed to wiggle one orgasm from Tyler—not that he cared. He was more preoccupied with getting Tyler to promise to quit sex work and become monogamous. Tyler told him no, multiple times, and even now does his heart race in his chest. Tyler was scared when he told this man no, but the man wasn't violent. He gave Tyler cash and said he'll turn Tyler around.

Is this when he'll turn Tyler around? He's watching Tyler, rather intently, and Tyler's chest aches from trying to control his breathing pattern. In through his nose and out through his mouth, he doesn't want to bring forth any unwanted attention. God forbid the guy comes toward him and checks to see if he's all right. Tyler is fine, thank you very much. Josh knows he isn't fine. He's pushing his hat back onto his head and shoving his phone into his jean pocket. "You okay?" he asks, reaching out a hand to touch Tyler's shoulder before he remembers he told Tyler he wouldn't touch him. The hand goes in the space between their thighs.

Tyler leans into Josh and whispers, "That guy keeps staring at me, and it's making me really uncomfortable."

Josh's first reaction is "Do you want me to beat him up?" which is very endearing, but it's past midnight on a bus with barely any passengers on it, so it'll do more disturbance than anything remotely close to help. At Tyler's shaking head, Josh purses his lips in thought. "Switch seats with me. I'll block his way if he tries to engage, and you can look out the window."

It's good enough. Josh stands while Tyler scoots. Once the new seating arrangement is in place, the guy turns his eyes onto Josh, slowly up, and then slowly down. There's nothing hinting at arousal in them, just aggression. Tyler lightly nudges Josh's foot with his own, shaking his head again, and tugs his sweatshirt's hood further over his head. Josh nods and slumps in his seat, taking out his phone and molding himself into position. It's as if neither of them has even moved. Josh is typing, and Tyler is looking down an alley he remembered throwing up in—good times.

The guy's stop comes first. Tyler watches him leave, as does Josh. They're each like birds of prey, waiting for him to drop dead so they can scoop up his innards and toss it from the tallest building. Tyler would race Josh up it. He loves climbing. But tonight, he isn't going to do much climbing. Tyler hasn't climbed in forever. He would like to climb onto a roof tonight, his knees to his chest, maybe a joint hanging from his mouth. He pictures it as his roof, at the apartment, his stupid stuffed bunny in his lap and Josh sitting beside him. Why would Josh be there?

Why would Josh be there?

"Hey," Josh says, and kicks at Tyler's foot. He thinks foot touching is okay, since Tyler started it last time. "We're here."

Josh's apartment building is a little rundown, but it's nicer than Tyler's. Potted plants are in the hallways, and the vending machines on every floor are stocked with fruit, granola bars, and water. Josh guides Tyler through the place, a metaphorical leash connecting them. Tyler doesn't see it as a collar to his neck, more like the jacket around his waist. If Tyler were to run, Josh would have every reason to run after him. Tyler doesn't run. Josh doesn't run after him. Tyler follows Josh inside his rooms.

Unlike Tyler's own home, this living area embodies the very idea of "my house is your house". The entrance is open, the sectional couch and a matching chair welcoming. Although the cushions look worn, Tyler can see himself sinking into them and not removing himself for several decades. There's a TV by the front door, angled toward the furniture, already on and set to a low volume. Josh whispers, "Shoot," as he notices it, dropping his keys onto the coffee table and scratching his cheek. "Must've forgot."

Tyler wants to spend the night wandering through the apartment. Mansions to tiny trailers were his temporary residences for a time, but none had felt more nurturing as Josh's apartment in that moment. It's almost too perfect. Tyler waits for the façade to drop and Josh to wrap his hand around Tyler's throat, to strangle him, to push him into the carpet and take him with no protection, no warning, no protection, no protection. Tyler swallows vomit and turns at Josh's voice. "Huh?"

Josh is standing in front of him, holding out a pair of basketball shorts. He doesn't seem to care Tyler had been out of it for a minute, maybe longer. "Here you go. While I fix your skirt."

Tyler takes the shorts, the mesh cool in his fingers. "Bathroom?"

"Down the hall. Second door on the right."

Tyler is in and out within seconds, removing Josh's jacket and dropping his skirt. He steps out of it with shoes still on and sways his hips to pull on the shorts. It's odd to wear without anything underneath, but this isn't the first time Tyler has resorted to this. He's used to it.

On the couch, kit already open on the coffee table, Josh is patient. His shoes are off, his hat gone, his sweatshirt vanished. A white cut-off shirt is stretched over his torso, loose, like something he wears to bed. He's still in his skinny jeans, Tyler not giving him long to dart into his room to change. But Josh isn't the type to grow uncomfortable while wearing jeans for prolonged periods of time. Josh looks like the guy who would wear leather pants just to prove that point. Tyler's heart leaps at that. He was never one for leather or chains or whips, but maybe with Josh, he could try.

Josh isn't like that, though. That's easily read from his relaxing smile and outstretched hand. Tyler passes over his skirt and spots a heart tattoo on the inside of Josh's bicep—an actual heart tattoo with the word "MOM" inscribed within. No, Josh wouldn't be into BDSM. He's into love and support and possibly biting. His teeth are sharp, and Tyler grows weak in the knees just thinking about them digging into his neck or the inside of his thigh.

"Shouldn't take long," Josh says, and procures a needle and some thread. Tyler neatly folds and drapes Josh's jacket on the back of the chair, taking a seat in it right after. Josh frowns and closes an eye as he sticks the thread through the needle. "Don't have to sit over there. You can sit with me."

"I don't want to bother you," Tyler weakly argues. "I might mess you up."

"Bull," Josh says, but doesn't continue. He's sewing now, an expert at his craft. Tyler's feet bounce as they rest on carpet. His legs shake, too, wanting to be squeezed by his arms. It would be rude to do so, and Tyler doesn't want to take off his shoes. Taking off his shoes would imply he's staying for a while, and he is _not_ staying. He told Mark to call in an hour, just in case, and Tyler intends to be on his way home in an hour, his skirt repaired and all thought of Josh and his pink hair and "MOM" tattoo in the darkest and furthest part of his mind.

Tyler distracts himself from Josh and his arms by getting on his phone. The front of his hoodie doesn't sag now, free from the heaviest thing once contained inside. Tyler had only brought his phone, cigarettes, and lighter to work today, not even thinking about bringing along lubricant or condoms. The couple said they didn't want anything penetrative, just something verging on the edge of teasing and climaxing without a single touch to their genitals. The husband succeeded in that regard while the wife came with two of Tyler's fingers buried in her cunt. Tyler blushes at the thought and immediately grows repulsed when he sees the unread email in his inbox.

_you're a twink, right?_

Tyler doesn't want to waste his data to answer an email like this, but he dares not ask Josh for the Wi-Fi password. His phone connected to this Wi-Fi would be another extension of home, and Tyler doesn't want that. This is not his home, despite its numerous attempts to be a home. A candle is lit in the kitchen, separated by a half-wall. It smells like sugar cookies. Tyler hasn't eaten since this morning.

Emails like this are for Tyler to answer. The messages his possible clients send need to follow a pattern; in the subject line, they need to explicitly say "REQUEST", followed by a colon and their name. Pretty standard stuff. Tyler has an easy-to-fill-out form on his blog that his clients are supposed to copy and paste and answer in their email to him. The questions are simple: name? phone number? in the Ohio/Columbus area? gender? sexual orientation? turn ons? turn offs? and then any other additional information that might be useful. That's when they're supposed to clarify what, in layman's terms, they want. For instance, if the girl Tyler talked to tonight were to go home and send in a request, she would need to put either an orgy or a moresome there. The husband and wife Tyler visited today said they wanted him to wear a skirt, and so he did. Emails like this, Tyler forwards to Mark, who goes and digs up any kind of dirt he has on the person—background checks, Facebook accounts, everything. If it checks out, he sends the emails back to Tyler with his own notes: "This guy wants you to shit on him and personally I wouldn't do it but you do you" or "Fisting? Really?" or sometimes he sends Tyler "No", and despite the person appearing okay on paper, Tyler automatically declines the request and blocks the email. Mark's intuition is always right.

However, Tyler does get emails like the one currently on the receiving end of his glares. That's the price he pays for putting his email on a public forum. Sometimes these sorts of emails are innocent—curious writers wanting information, people in the same profession as him desiring to network, loners who thought he was hot and could use someone who would listen to all his problems. Tyler doesn't like those. If he wanted to talk, he would talk.

_you're a twink, right?_

Tyler licks at his lips and readies his thumbs for a response. What could he say? When he's at this stage of the interview, he asks his clients if they would rather be topped or top. Tyler can bend himself into any role they want. This, though? Is Tyler a twink? The presence of the "right?" implies clarification, like the sender knows Tyler's a twink, but does Tyler know he's a twink? Is he that self aware? Tyler shudders and plays along.

_if you want me to be ;)_

The reply comes after a short pause. _Will you be good for daddy?_

Tyler covers his mouth with his hand and desperately wishes to die.

Josh, from the couch, now sitting upright with Tyler's skirt on its way to being as nice as new, frowns at Tyler. "Dude, you gonna be sick? Want me to get you anything?"

Tyler drops his hand into his lap and tests the waters. "If your partner wanted to call you 'daddy' in bed, or vice versa, would you be into that?"

Josh's front is a nice guy, someone who will listen with no judgment on his tongue. That can't be it, can it? Sure, Josh can be a goody two-shoes, _whatever_. It can't be just that. There's more. There _has_ to be more.

There's nothing.

Josh looks half-sick himself. "Oh… I… I had a girlfriend who had a thing for that. We tried it once, but… I don't know." Josh shrugs. "We broke up shortly after that, so I think it was her trying to grasp at… straws." He sticks the needle into Tyler's skirt, slowly pulling the thread through. His movements are sluggish, his thoughts not on his sewing, on something else, forming a narrative that might be true. What if it is true? Tyler will stutter and die.

It isn't true. Josh doesn't have all the facts. "Are… is the guy who wants you to call him… _that_ the one who ripped your skirt?"

Tyler's thumbs still on his phone.

"Because, like, I know you don't really know me, but… if you need help getting out of a _situation_ , then I'm here." Josh returns his attention to sewing, almost done.

By the time Tyler gathers the courage to speak, Josh finishes with Tyler's skirt. He holds it up to admire his work, rubbing a few fingers into the stitching. "Two different shades of black, but it's not that noticeable."

With his gut instinct being to drop to his knees, Tyler doesn't realize he's doing it. He's leaning in, hands reaching to undo Josh's zipper, and Josh is setting everything aside to gently take hold of Tyler's wrists. "What are you doing?"

Tyler is floating. He still doesn't fully grasp what he had been about to do. Sweat pools under his arms, and suddenly the mesh of these basketball shorts seem thinner than they were when he pulled them on. "Thanking you," Tyler says, honestly. Might as well. He can't excuse this, not while it's so obvious.

Josh's brows knit together, his eyes crinkling at the edges as he smiles in confusion. "What?" He laughs softly. "You don't have to thank me, man. And you, uh, you certainly don't have to thank me by doing _this_." Josh drops Tyler's wrists and turns to take Tyler's skirt and pass it to him, but Tyler is on his feet, scurrying down the hall.

"Second door on the left, you said?"

"Right," Josh says, and Tyler turns into the bathroom, shoving it closed with a shoulder and twisting the lock as his fingers reject all controlled moves. From here, Tyler can hear his phone _ping_ with a notification. He curses himself for leaving his phone, then shakes it off. He mustn't blame himself. He's okay. This is fine. A mistake, he made a little mistake.

Tyler stumbles toward the sink, knuckles white as he holds onto the edge with his left hand while his right slips inside his shorts. Hot, warm, everything, Tyler lets go of the counter to press his palm to his mouth, muffling any sounds that escape as his fingertips give the smallest of strokes.

He hastily pushes the shorts to his thighs, flipping on the sink for a second to drench his fingers with water before he's back to stroking himself. He never liked to use water as lubrication, but he has to work with what's available. His hand becomes the bearer of his gasps as he eases two fingers inside himself. No warning, no protection, Tyler gets off to the thought of Josh fucking him on the floor of the living room. Tyler hates the feel of carpet burn and loves the look of carpet burn. He wants it on his cheek, on his hands and knees; he wants it on his stomach and chest as Josh holds him down and tells him how much of a good boy he is. "I'm a good boy, I'm a good boy," Tyler whispers into his palm, biting it, drawing blood. "I'm a good boy." Tyler wiggles in a third finger, leaning on an elbow on the sink countertop. He rocks back on his fingers, the sound obscene and erotic. Tyler squeezes his eyes shut, toes curling in his shoes.

If not the living room floor, Josh can take him in here. Knock on the door, find the key, and Josh will see him, no warning, no protection, and that makes Tyler go faster, unforgiving, harder. Josh would go faster if Tyler tells him to—he would do a lot of things if Tyler told him to do them. Tyler has that sort of face, or Josh has that sort of face.

Tyler's phone rings. "Uh," Josh says, and Tyler groans and rubs out his orgasm, clenching around his fingers and biting at his hand.

Two minutes pass before Tyler has the strength to stand properly. By then, Josh is knocking on the bathroom door, scaring Tyler, bringing unwanted and unexpected tears to Tyler's eyes. _Hypocrite, hypocrite, hypocrite_. "Hey, Tyler, uh, something's going on with your phone. You got a call from some guy named Mark, and now it won't stop vibrating." Then, quietly, "Dude, are you okay?"

"I'm fine." Tyler tugs toilet paper off the roll and cleans himself up. "Be out in a sec." He wipes off the counter, too, furious with himself. An hour with Josh and Mark is calling him. Mark must be worried sick. Tyler cries freely then, unable to stop. He pisses, flushes the toilet, fixes his shorts, and washes his hands. Dirty, dirty, dirty, his fingers are pruning and his hand is pink from bite marks. Tyler hides it with his sleeve and walks out of the bathroom.

Josh is on the couch, a leg to his chest, as he warily stares at Tyler's phone. Screen up, silent, the notifications coming in are too fast for the device to make a sound or vibration. Tyler scoops it up from the floor and texts Mark, apologizing, explaining how he's okay, how he was in the bathroom, how he's fine, okay, he's all right, Mark. He's safe.

"Uh," Josh says again, shifting his weight, his other leg to his chest. "Is everything… okay?"

"Just my friend," Tyler says, watching as a tear tumbles down his cheek and lands on his phone. Tyler wipes it away. "I told him t-to call me."

"That many times?" Josh picks at his thumb. No doubt this is going into Josh's understanding of Tyler and his relationships. He probably thinks Mark is the guy who's into daddy kink and ripping skirts.

"Haven't you ever worried about someone that much?"

Josh huffs out a laugh. "My mom."

Tyler reaches the end of his text messages. Mark said he would call the cops if Tyler hadn't gotten back to him in another hour. It's protocol. Tyler appreciates Mark remembering. "There you have it."

"Another thing," Josh says. "When I picked up your phone after the call, I saw… like, a reminder…?"

Tyler navigates to the app. "Oh, yeah."

"Planned Parenthood?" Anybody else would have spoken the name like black magic. Not Josh. He's intrigued, no judgment. "Do you want me to drive you tomorrow?"

"Do you think I'm spending the night or something?"

"Well, I mean, it's, like, almost two in the morning." Josh shrugs. "Just thought it'd be polite to ask. I could, like… I haven't been keeping up with my testing. Think it's been… maybe a year? I'm not that sexually active, but I know it's always good to get tested every now and then."

Tyler looks up, looks at Josh, and he doesn't know why, but he's crying, had been crying before, silent things, and now it's noisier, paired with gross snivels and the fight to keep it inside and simultaneously let it out. Josh stands immediately, hands up as if in a sort of surrender. They're going through his hair as he faces his own battle. He's going into the kitchen, the candle still lit on the table. Josh is in front of Tyler, crouching, holding out a cup full of red liquid. Tyler doesn't know what it is, yet he takes it and swallows a bit. Fruity—cherry, sweet, Tyler takes another drink.

"Kool-Aid," Josh says. "It always cheered me up when I was a kid."

"Thank you."

Josh takes the cup once it empties. "I can drive you home. Hell, I'll buy you food, too."

"No."

Josh blinks. "No?"

Tyler pushes himself into sitting. Steady fingers unlace his shoes and pluck off his socks. Josh stands and goes into the kitchen, dumping the cup in the sink, eyes still on Tyler. "Staying the night?" Josh smiles. "What changed your mind?"

Tyler doesn't deign that with a response. Aware of the cigarettes and lighter in the pocket, he peels the hoodie away, setting it in the chair and straightening out the rumpled t-shirt underneath. Josh is cleaning up his makeshift work station. The kit stays on the coffee table, and Tyler's skirt joins it, out of reach. "I'll find you a blanket," Josh says, and heads down the hallway. Tyler quickly types a text to Mark— _i'm spending the night with him. i don't know what's going to happen. i will text you before i go to my appointment. he's supposed to be taking me. i don't know what's going to happen._ Mark reads the message instantly and doesn't reply. It's late, and Tyler might have finally provided Mark the opportunity to sleep peacefully. The last things Tyler does before putting his phone down for the night are blocking the sender of that disconcerting email and switching off his data.

Blanket in toll, along with a pillow, Josh replaced his skinny jeans with gray sweatpants. "You're always expected to have spare blankets," he muses, "but you're never told to have spare pillows." He drops both the blanket and pillow onto the couch. Definitely used, the pillow is flat, stained with hair dye.

"I don't want to take your pillow."

"Nah, I have another one. Don't worry about it."

Tyler stands. Josh stares at him as he walks, Josh's eyes glancing down Tyler's body. It's over before it starts. If Tyler were to do anything about it, he would be at fault. "Do you need anything else? Want the TV on or off?"

"On."

Josh keeps it on. "When's your appointment? Nine?"

"Ten, I think. An alarm is supposed to go off an hour beforehand."

"Should go to sleep now. We're barely gonna get the required eight hours." Josh stares at him again. "I'll keep my door open, if you need anything."

"I'll get you. If I need anything."

"Yeah. If you need anything."

They turn away, Tyler sinking into the couch cushions and Josh popping into the kitchen. As Tyler unfolds the blanket and props up the pillow, Josh blows out the candle. Tyler finds the TV remote between the cushions and surfs through the channels, settling on some stories from the emergency room on TLC. Supposed to be humorous, Tyler doesn't laugh. Something is egging at the back of his head. He's forgetting something, and he thinks Josh knows it, too. Josh is lingering in the kitchen, by the table, watching the smoke from the candle dissipate.

It dawns on Tyler, embarrassingly enough, when he wakes with a start from his light snooze and panics at the empty space between his arm and chest. Since Josh is still in the kitchen, he appears by Tyler's side in no time, eyes wide as he tries to find out what's happening by sight alone. "Tyler?"

Tyler is embarrassing, too embarrassing. He shouldn't have gone out today at all. He woke late, actually considered cancelling on that couple, but he pushed himself, and he got a ripped skirt and a shameful masturbation session in a stranger's bathroom out of it.

Shaky, Tyler rubs his cheek into Josh's pillow. "Don't call me stupid," he begins.

"I won't."

"Okay." Tyler licks his lips. "I sleep with a stuffed animal. Obviously I don't have it, and I—"

Josh is leaving. Tyler feels like crying. He doesn't cry. Josh is by him again, an old, ratty, and patched brown bunny in his hand. "Will this help?"

Tyler is too tired to entertain the thought of what this could mean. He takes Josh's bunny, identical to Tyler's at his apartment except for the brown color. Tyler's is white—more ivory or yellow due to age. They're clear counterparts, made by the same company and possibly sold at the same store around Easter. Tyler looks into the black buttons used for the eyes and feels safe.

"Is that okay?" Josh asks, chewing at his cheek.

"You won't miss it?"

Josh shakes his head. "Usually need it on bad nights. Tonight's not a bad night."

Tyler tucks it between his arm and chest. "Thank you."

"Don't mention it." Josh gives a sleepy wave. "Good night, Tyler."

When Tyler closes his eyes, he falls into fuzzy, peaceful dreams.

*

Tyler wakes naturally, his body protesting at every opportunity. He's pushing himself up, forcing himself to be productive. This couch is too… _much_. He shouldn't be here. But that thought is not needed. That thought is bad, unappreciative of what transpired late last night and early this morning. He rubs his hands over his face, through his hair, and continues to push himself, legs swinging over the edge of the couch. He sits, most of the blanket pooled on the floor and Josh's stuffed animal delicately placed on Josh's pillow, as if Tyler subconsciously took care of it as he dreamed.

He checks the time—quarter 'til nine. Reasonable. The television is on and playing a show Tyler wouldn't even watch while under the influence. He finds the remote and flips it to a news station. As long as it has a liberal bias, he could care less what they report.

All is quiet. Tyler is back in high school, being the first to wake at a sleepover with friends. He keeps his gaze low, not glancing around in fear. Tyler stares ahead, at the coffee table, and grabs his skirt. Josh was right: The new stitching is a different shade of black than the skirt, though it's barely noticeable. He did a good job. This isn't the only piece of clothing ripped and turned into nothing more than a rag. Would Josh care if Tyler brought them for repair? Why does Tyler think he'll be returning here? This is a one-time thing, an innocent one-night stand. Tyler is used to that.

Tyler sets the skirt next to him and works off the shorts Josh gave him. He slides on the skirt, standing to brush his hands down the sides, the back of it. The stitching is adaptable. Tyler can't feel it. He likes this the most.

"I didn't think I'd see _that_ this early."

"Didn't see a thing," Tyler counters.

Josh yawns. "Yeah, you're right. Good guess?"

"Good guess." Tyler picks the shorts from the floor, kicking the blanket back onto the sofa while he's at it, too. "Where do you put your dirty clothes?"

"First door on the right." Josh opens his fridge. "Are you hungry?" He's generous with the question, like he's going to make enough food for two no matter what Tyler tells him. "Pancakes?" Tyler stays in the laundry room, the shorts in the hamper, his hands hiding his face. He feels awful. A trespasser, Tyler has overstayed his welcome. He doesn't deserve this, not now. "Only have mini pancakes. Is that okay?"

"That's okay." Tyler's response is without hesitation. He can already tell today is going to be challenging. If he acts fine, then everything will mold to that mindset. He can do this.

With Josh, it's easy. They sit on the couch, sharing the blanket over their laps, Josh's stained pillow acting as a lower back support as they slouch and nibble at their mini pancakes. Little space is between them, but Josh doesn't touch him. He's careful. Is Tyler an atom bomb? What would happen if Josh were to touch him?

He would break, and Tyler is unsure in what way.

The ride to Planned Parenthood is as quiet as it was this morning. Josh held open the car door for Tyler and shut it gently once he climbed inside and sat. Tyler never tires of comparing houses and vehicles of his many clients, but it seems unfair to categorize Josh with them. Josh is different. Josh isn't a client.

"Want some gum?" Josh asks, and points at the glove department. "Sorry I didn't have a spare toothbrush."

"It's fine." Tyler shoves two cubes of strawberry into his mouth. "I don't have extra toothbrushes at my apartment either." He draws his phone from his hoodie pocket, angling it away from Josh, to send Mark the _made-it-through-the-night_ text. When Tyler turns to a more open posture, Josh is staring at him, smiling.

Josh smiles. Why is he smiling? His smile never falters. Tyler ignores it.

Tyler is the leader today, Josh following at his heels. The receptionist for the morning is Jenna, greeting Tyler before he's fully inside the building. She's chewing gum, too, mint, blue. It makes her teeth whiter. "How are you doing today, Ty?" She leans in, elbows on the desk. "You look happy." She smiles, and it's almost as contagious as Josh's. Tyler ducks his head. "Who's your—oh, Josh! Now that's a face I haven't seen in forever."

"Hey." Josh stands next to Tyler.

"So, are you here with Tyler as emotional support or for something else?"

_Don't, don't, don't._

"Both," Josh says, and Jenna laughs.

In and out, Tyler hates waiting rooms and sitting patiently. Josh beside him does nothing to settle his nerves. He goes through this every month, every two months. Empty boxes and bottles frequent his trash bins, always using protection, always being careful, but there's that possibility, and Tyler doesn't like to think of that possibility. What would he do if he does catch something? All he can hope, if it happens to be the case, is that it's treatable—or curable.

In and out, Josh eyes Tyler as he sticks three handfuls of free condoms into his kangaroo pocket. Jenna wants to give him a fourth, but Tyler tells her this is enough for now. She knows. She was Tyler's first client, as a courtesy as his friend more than anything. They had dinner and watched reruns of old Nickelodeon cartoons. "We could have slept together," Tyler told her, and Jenna said, "I know." Jenna knows and, her fingers curled around the fourth handful of free condoms, asks Josh if he would like some. "Always take a handout," she says, and Josh takes the handout, dumping them into the pocket of his camouflage jacket.

"So, want me to drive you home?" They're walking to Josh's car, Tyler impressed at how well his skirt is holding up.

"Since you offered."

"Since I offered." Josh opens the door for Tyler again. Tyler climbs in, sitting with his knees pressed together. The gum in his mouth has lost its flavor. He blows a bubble. "Address?" Josh starts the car. Tyler tells him the address as he drags out his phone again, texting Mark again. _i'm on my way home. thinking about doing some cam work. wanna hang later?_

"Hey," Josh says, at a red light. "We should, like, get together when our results come in. Celebrate. I mean, celebrate our presumed good health."

Tyler rubs the side of his phone, rigid, the case coming unglued. "Yeah, we should totally do that." Cringing, Tyler hopes Josh isn't offended at his tone.

He isn't. He's moving right along. "Kind of need your number for that."

In front of Tyler's apartment complex, they switch phones and input their information. "See ya," Tyler mumbles, and Josh shoots him a "Later."

Tyler hops from Josh's car, hip bumping the door closed. Using a hand to wave goodbye, Tyler uses his other to forward Josh's contact information to Mark. _his name is josh dun. tell me he's okay._

_What does that mean?_

_just do your thing_

_You want him to be okay or you need him to be okay?_

Tyler replays the chant of _hypocrite_ and _don't_ over and over in his head, a never-ending loop. _both_.

*

Mark is always lurking in the chat. He swears he doesn't watch Tyler, but Tyler says he doesn't mind if Mark watches. _you're here_ , Tyler texts, naked and leaned back on his pillows, _you were always there._

 _Still weird. You're my friend_.

The room fills quickly. Tyler likes to waste their time for the first few minutes, sitting around with a pillow on his lap, eating, keeping his attention on his phone and not on the laptop screen in front of him. His viewers are allowed to peek for free, though they need to put in a card number to continue. Mark called Tyler evil once he realized what he was doing. However, he takes it back not long after, nodding his head and saying, "I would do the same."

Right now, Tyler leans on his pillows. A blanket hides everything below his waist as he waits for a bowl of ramen noodles to cool. Mark is holding conversations with Tyler on his phone and in the chatroom, each of very different subject matters. The chatroom is classified as private, but they resort to their phones to talk about important things—or things they deem important at the time. As of now, Josh is the topic of their texting while the chat logs a discussion on scars. Tyler sends Mark, _find anything?_ , and sends the chat, _yeah, keyhole._ Mark sends Tyler, _Dude I literally just sat down?_ , and sends the chat, _I paid for it because I'm a good friend_.

Tyler thinks if he were to be around his family for more than an hour, they wouldn't notice any difference in his chest. Maybe if it was summer and he wore tight clothing, but even then, Tyler doesn't expect them to really bring attention to it. For a good two days they avoided talking about his haircut. It was dinner when his sister finally slammed her hand on the table and said, "Are you guys blind or something?" She had been in Tyler's room the night he cut it, had been the first to compliment him. Tyler remembers hugging her then and after dinner, where Zack didn't look at him directly and their mom looked as if she might eat her own lips. Tyler knew they didn't like it, but he got over it. He doesn't have to please everyone to be happy.

So, really, if he were to bare his chest in front of his family, Tyler wouldn't really give a damn. All that matters is if he's happy.

He was happy before, yes. Surgery didn't automatically heal and make him happy. Relaxed, maybe, but not happy.

When Tyler moved out of his parents' house and became a regular at staying in bed for days on end, Mark often visited. "Just making sure you're still alive," he said every time he walked into the apartment. "I didn't jerk off the landlord to let this place become your gravesite." He laughed at this, and Tyler cracked a smile.

In those days, Mark sat with Tyler each evening, doing his thing on his phone while Tyler did the same on his. They didn't talk. It was peaceful. On Tyler's birthday, nothing was out of the ordinary. Mark brought a cake when he came over and waited until Tyler's mouth was full with blue icing to disclose his present. Tyler almost choked, and he hugged Mark and wouldn't let go. "Like a damn koala," Mark sighed, as he did his best to pry Tyler from him. It was a lost cause. Mark accepted it.

"Why?" Tyler asked, and Mark answered with the most cliché bullshit he could come up with—"I just want you to be happy."

To say Mark was there since the beginning is an understatement. Mark knew Tyler when they were both awkward teenagers who wanted to do something creative with their lives. As adults, they're still awkward and still want to do something creative, but at least they have better hair. Mark likes computers and film, and Tyler… Tyler likes a lot of things, but right now, if someone were to ask what he likes, he'd tell them Josh.

And he hates himself for it.

 _find anything now?_ he sends Mark, and Mark sends back an angry, red face emoji. Tyler laughs, and is asked why he started laughing with a mouthful of ramen by three users. Tyler ignores them and continues shoveling his mouth with the noodles and harassing Mark via text.

Tyler moves his laptop screen from view when he stands to put the bowl in the kitchen. He hears disappointed sighs—and promptly mutes everybody. Tyler likes it quiet. He likes to pretend he is alone and happens to be paid by chance. He doesn't think Mark has the volume turned up. He says it's weird to watch Tyler, never mind listen. Mark is here to monitor the chat, to block users who are foul, because Tyler loses himself during this.

 _what about now?_ Tyler tries again, sitting back on the bed with the blanket over his lap and the laptop turned to him again. He leans over, rummaging around in his nightstand for lube, for his toys.

 _Dude stop asking me_.

Tyler grabs three of his toys, not one identical to the other. He holds them up to the camera and allows his viewers to pick which one he should use tonight. There are men who want the largest and thickest one, which, once Tyler sees the request, immediately tosses out of sight. He loses a couple viewers. He laughs.

Ultimately, it comes down to what Tyler wants, and Tyler wants neither of these. He's forced to settle, so he settles on the average-sized dildo. It's fucking pink and reminds Tyler of Josh. He realizes this once it's already buried inside him, but he isn't disgusted. He's feeling a lot of things, most of them he dares not speak aloud.

 _hey mark_ , Tyler texts with one hand, as the other holds the pink dick to his mouth.

_Tyler I thought I told you_

_no, no, i was gonna ask if that couple ever sent me the money for last night. haven't been able to check my paypal._

_I'll check rn_

Tyler sets his phone down and leans back against his pillows. He moves away the blanket and ignores the messages on his laptop screen. They're disappointed again and expressing their dislike for the hair between Tyler's legs. _You were fucking shaved last time_ , one pissed viewer types. It disappears quickly. Mark is always lurking in the chat.

Not bothering with fingers, Tyler spreads a thin coating of lube along the toy and eases it inside. He's rocking on it, fucking himself, not giving his body the chance to get used to it. He would have given himself time if he was using the bigger toy, but Tyler doesn't like the bigger toy. Mark bought it for him as a joke. Tyler used it once, filmed himself, and sent it to Mark. Mark thought it was funny. Mark is a good friend.

To his left, Tyler's phone vibrates with a message from Mark. On the screen, the preview of the message shows, and it's clear Mark had checked Tyler's PayPal account. Tyler assumes the couple sent him money. He shoves his phone from the bed, rolling onto his stomach, spreading his legs, and sliding the fucking pink dick back inside himself. On an elbow, hips lifted off the mattress, Tyler thinks of Josh. It's ephemeral, and yet it becomes permanent with each second it chooses to stay. Josh is welcome in his mind, for right now; it quickens his pace and makes small gasps surface. When the show, and he, finishes, Tyler will read the chat log and blush at the praise these people have given him. But now, he's in his own world, eyes closed, his hand working a stupid fucking pink dick in and out of himself, Josh in his head, in his ears, in his mouth. Tyler hears Josh laughing, sees him smile, and God, Tyler can't eat _fucking pancakes_ anymore without thinking of Josh. Tyler should have taken Josh's hand and pulled him into the bar bathroom. Josh would have lifted his skirt over his hips and fucked him and fucked him and fucked him, and Tyler would have cried from how good it felt. Maybe Tyler wouldn't be feeling like this right now, wouldn't be constantly thinking about him.

But no, Josh had to order a Coke and say he liked Tyler's skirt, hey, he could fix Tyler's skirt, hey, here's a jacket, _I won't touch you, I won't touch you, I won't touch you._

Tyler climaxes with "touch me, touch me, Jesus Fuck, touch me" on his bleeding lips. He removes his hand, and the dick lands on the bed sheets. One final push is all Tyler can do. He flops onto his back, smiles at the camera, and ends the cam session. He reads through the chat, the praise, and loads up Skype. Mark is on his screen within moments, not staring at Tyler out of respect. Tyler laughs. It's weak, breathless. "Dude, I don't fucking care."

So, Mark stares. "Still weird."

"S'not weird." Tyler lolls his head on his shoulders. His whole body hums. "How much money did they send?"

"Like, six hundred."

Tyler furrows his brow. "You serious?"

"Yeah." Mark pauses. "Wait, did they cheat you or treat you?"

"Definitely treat me." Tyler's minimum is a hundred dollars per person, then adds another hundred if the service they desire is out of Tyler's comfort zone. He steps out of his comfort zone only when it's getting close to the end of the month and money's tight. Tyler makes good money, but if there was ever a lazy sex worker, it would be Tyler. Mark's gotten onto him before, had even accused him of spending money on _other things_. He didn't say what those other things might be, but Tyler assured Mark he didn't do shit like that.

"Then what do you do? Why are you running short?"

Tyler hid his face and said, "I just really like casual sex, Mark."

Mark said he understood. Tyler cried. Mark told him not to cry. Tyler did anyway. The following week, Mark took Tyler to Planned Parenthood, and thus started Tyler's routine visits. Jenna was there. She frowned at Tyler and asked why he wasn't testing himself before now. Tyler cried. Mark was with him and told him not to cry. Tyler did anyway.

"Casual sex is okay," Mark said, "but you have got to be careful, Tyler."

"I will, I will."

Tyler runs his fingers along his chest, tapping his sternum. He slowly shuts his eyes. "Have you found anything?"

"Tyler, I will block you."

They laugh.

"Think I'm gonna do another show in an hour. Do you want to watch a movie after that?"

"Gotta shower."

"I'm not that gross, Mark." Tyler smiles. "Actually think I'm gonna do one in a few minutes."

"Got it bad?"

" _So bad_. Can't go out and do anything because I have to wait for my test results to come in." Tyler sits up. Mark averts his eyes, even still. "But once I'm clear, I am—"

"Yeah, yeah. I'll send you the juiciest requests first."

Tyler grabs the pink dick, holds it in his hand. "Mark, I know I'm annoying, but… _please_."

"I'll get on it, Ty." Mark begins typing. It matches Tyler's heartbeat. "What's so special about this guy anyway?"

Tyler rubs his thumb into one of the fake cock's veins. "I don't know."

*

Cam work has always been there for Tyler. When he was living with his parents, he did it every night. He worked himself under his bed covers, and he didn't know why he got more viewers and money when he did this, but he didn't question it. He saw the comments people made. They fetishized his innocence and cherished his virginity. They wanted to have Tyler, and Tyler played the act. The money rolled in.

Once Tyler moved out, he began to grow more confident. It evolved as time went on. Mark said he should think about doing more than cam work. "You know, just a suggestion?"

Tyler thought about it. He thought about it for a week. On Sunday night, he walked down to Mark's apartment without a shirt and two different color socks on his feet. "I'm going to do more. I'm going to a bar tomorrow, and I… Mark, okay, don't make this weird or anything, but—"

"It's already weird."

"Shut up. Okay, we're friends, right?"

"Yes…"

"Cool, cool. Anyway, we should have sex tonight."

"Tyler—"

"You're making this weird. It doesn't have to be weird."

"But it is weird!"

"It's only weird if you make it weird!"

Mark gave in. Tyler anticipated crying at the end, but he didn't shed a single tear. He laughed. He was happy. "See, that wasn't weird. Just two guys… fooling around."

"Whatever, man. I need to shower."

Tyler went to the bar the next day and dropped to his knees. His knees bruised. His jaw ached. That night was the best night of his life. He came home around three in the morning and texted Mark to tell him he was okay.

 _I understand it now_ , Mark said. _That was your first time, wasn't it? With me_

_yeah_

_It isn't weird anymore_.

If he's having a bad day, Tyler fucks himself until it turns into a good day. It works. He likes masturbating. But sex… it gives Tyler something masturbation can't—danger, thrill, pain. Tyler likes sex and helping out his clients. He's good at it. If only his parents could see what their son is doing with his life.

They would be ashamed of him.

Tyler lies on his side, fingers wet, thighs wet, sweating, and pink in the face. Mark's name flashes on his phone screen. _Take it easy Tyler, don't overwork yourself._

If only his parents could see him now.

Cam work is always there for Tyler. He does it during these down times, when he's waiting for _that_ call from Planned Parenthood. On these nights, leading up to the call, Tyler has nightmares. He clutches his stuffed bunny and tries to form a plan of action. If he's infected with _something_ , he needs to contact everybody he's been with, but that's hard when Tyler is prone to casual sex with strangers in bar bathrooms and alleyways and beds that are too hard or too soft. He told the woman who wanted some fun with her friends he "doesn't do this like that anymore"—and he lied. Why did he lie? Josh was there.

Josh was there.

Tyler grips his phone every night before he slips into the nightmares. He stares at Josh's number, willing a message to come in by sheer hope alone. But Josh doesn't text him, and he doesn't text Josh, and he's stopped asking Mark if he found anything on Josh.

He's used to waiting for phone calls.

*

It's a Thursday when both Tyler's and Josh's test results arrive. Tyler is already starting a dialogue with a client wanting to eat out Tyler and nothing else. "Something easy" is written on the forward email from Mark. Tyler needs something easy.

They're trying to pick a time best suited for them both—honestly, Tyler's good for anytime—when Tyler's phone buzzes in his hands. For some odd reason, Tyler thinks he's hallucinating Josh's name. He even laughs. "Good one, brain."

But it buzzes again, and Tyler needs to save the email as a draft and immediately direct all facets of himself into this reply to Josh Dun.

 _Hey! My results were negative haha still up for celebrating?  
_ _Oh, this is Josh btw. I fixed your skirt, if you forgot_

How could Tyler forget?

Does he play this safe? Does he wait for five minutes? For an hour? No, his read receipts are on, so Josh knows how much of an eager asshole Tyler is.

Does Tyler flirt? Jesus, why are his palms sweaty?

_mine too! yeah we should celebrate, we said we would haha_

Nailed it.

Tyler chews on his thumb. He coughs.

_Okay cool, your place or mine?_

"Breathe, idiot," Tyler mumbles.

_i haven't, like, dusted_

_Idc about dust, man_

_so… my place?_

_I'm down. I think I still know how to get there. Does around seven sound okay?_

_yeah_

_See you then_

Tyler chews on his index finger, then his middle one.

_wait_

_What is it?_

_could you bring your sewing kit?_

_Skirt ripped again?_

_no, other clothing_

_Yeah sure, no problem_

Tyler smiles and goes back to his email. _sorry_ , he tells the guy, _we'll have to do this either tomorrow or on saturday. something came up._

*

He spends the rest of the afternoon cleaning. He scrubs every surface in the bathroom and changes his bed sheets. He sticks everything having to do with sex into a backpack and sticks that backpack into his closet. And he fucking _dusts_.

Tyler inspects his clothing after he showers, dropping everything that's been abused and mistreated by random hands on his bed. He wonders if Josh will bring enough thread.

At seven fifteen, Tyler declares his apartment safe for entry by even the most uptight church member. At seven seventeen, Josh texts his arrival. _Walk me in?_

Tyler stuffs his phone into his back pocket and heads downstairs, Adidas sandals and no jacket. Josh is wearing a jacket—the camouflage one. A bag hangs from a shoulder, a baseball cap on his head again. He looks much like their first meeting, right down to his smile and the concern in his eyes. "Hey," he says.

"Hi."

They go upstairs. It's quiet, not awkward in the slightest. Josh is following him. They walk past dead plants in pots and vending machines that haven't been stocked in days. A hallway on the second floor is completely dark. Mark says he needs to bring a flashlight to see the lock on his door. Tyler is thankful he lives on the third floor.

Tyler's apartment is not welcoming. Entering the living room only makes the visitor want to leave. The first sight seen is the back of a couch. If not paying attention, it could be run into. Tyler has done it on more than one occasion. He does it now and tries to act like he hadn't. Josh doesn't notice. He's taking in everything with wide, unscrutinizing eyes. "Small," he concludes, his exploration taking him to the kitchen, where the ugly green carpet touches ugly green tile. "Cozy."

There's only a couch, coffee table, and television in the living room. Tyler should have bought a chair. They'll end up sitting on the same piece of furniture tonight. Tyler doesn't know why that makes him blush. "Yeah," Tyler mumbles, "I like it."

"Me, too." Josh lowers his bag to the floor, next to the couch. "How are you?"

"I'm fine." Tyler takes the initiative and kicks off his shoes. Although they're just sandals, feeling carpet between his toes brings a sense of calm over Tyler. He watches Josh do the same, unlacing shoes and pulling off socks. His jacket comes off next, and then his hat. "How are you?"

"Good. You said you had clothes for me to fix?"

"Oh, yeah! Yeah, just… wait here." Tyler hurries down the hallway, turning into his bedroom. He trips over a cord, curses, and gathers his clothing into his arms. The pile didn't seem like a lot when he picked them out. Now, though, it feels like a lot. He says as much in the living room. "Sorry if there's… a lot."

Josh is on the couch, on his phone, his thumb moving, typing. The device goes into his pocket with a shake of his head and a smile. "Don't worry about it. I don't mind."

There're t-shirts and hoodies, button-down shirts and leggings and fucking dresses. Josh grabs a dress first. A short little number, black, the slit up the side is longer than the manufacturer intended. Tyler's eyes look everywhere but at Josh as he does this. It's unavoidable. Tyler sits on the opposite end of the couch, away from Josh, the clothes a partition.

Despite all efforts to stop himself from staring at Josh, Tyler stares at Josh. Tyler watches Josh. Legs to his chest, an arm loosely wrapped around them while the other is a pillow resting on the back of the sofa, Tyler stares and stares. The TV is on, but the current show is indecipherable. It holds no interest. Josh is sitting on Tyler's couch, cross-legged, sewing a dress a man with a ten-inch cock ripped.

"This is really pretty," Josh says. "How far is this supposed to go up? Can't really tell."

Tyler leans forward, head tilting. "Um."

"Yours, right? How about you put it on? Tell me then. Since you're gonna be the one wearing it. You should be comfortable."

Tyler blinks. "Since I'm gonna be the one wearing it." The dress slips from Josh's hands. Tyler takes it to the bathroom, stands there.

Is he doing this?

Tyler pops the button off his jeans, shimmying them to the floor. Yes, he's doing this.

Loose, falling from his figure, Tyler bought the dress on a whim. It was a good whim. He made a lot of money wearing this dress.

From what he can tell, in the mirror above the sink, the slit should barely be three inches long. The man stretched it almost halfway up Tyler's torso. And so far, Josh managed to stitch it to Tyler's hip. Will Josh trust Tyler if he tells him where to stop? Does he need to see?

Tyler shows him.

He's cautious as he steps into the living room. His shoulders are too small under these spaghetti straps, but with it being as shapeless as it is, Tyler is flat, and he loves it.

Josh is speechless, as he should rightfully be. All tension is removed from his face, hard lines turning soft. His eyes become liquid, fluid and warm. Tyler continues his walk, stopping in front of the couch, in front of Josh. Josh isn't sitting cross-legged anymore; his feet are on the floor, legs spread, posture relaxed, working on a t-shirt with holes throughout the collar hem. At Tyler, he drops his hands, his lips part, and his toes curl. "You look great, Tyler."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah." Josh smiles, warm as his eyes. Everything about him is warm as he draws Tyler closer with a hand. "So, here?" He points once Tyler comes closer, standing in between his knees. His finger is by Tyler's upper thigh, about where the skirt's rip had ended. This dress is shorter than the skirt. The skirt was modest, something Tyler could wear to every-day functions if he wanted, but this dress is to be worn for one purpose and one purpose only. How Josh knows where the slit in the dress should start is a wonder to Tyler. He's about to open his mouth to ask, but Josh is talking. Josh is asking Tyler something, and Tyler thinks he might have momentarily blacked out. Josh repeats himself. "Do you mind if I touch you? I mean, it'd be easier to get this, like, _exact_ if you were still wearing it, but I totally understand if you don't want me to, uh, touch you or anything. We can just, like… tape off where I should stop."

Tyler wills himself to keep from blushing. "No, it's okay. Y-you can touch me." _Shit_. Josh's palms are even warm, cupping Tyler's hips as he pulls Tyler in closer, slowly rotating him in order to work on the ripped side of the dress. Tyler is glad he's wearing something underneath this outfit today, even if they're a pair of bland boxer briefs. Do they make the situation better? Would Josh treat him differently if he were wearing panties or completely naked? Chest hurting, Tyler finds it hard to breathe. One of Josh's hands comes down, touching Tyler's ass—but it appears to be done without thought. He's looking at Tyler, lips parted again to form a question or _something_. Tyler is quick. He's stumbling over his words, but he gets it out before Josh can speak. "Don't prick me, okay? I'd get so pissed if you stabbed me."

And Josh _laughs_ , and Tyler possesses enough strength to stop his knees from snapping in two. "I'll be careful, man. You can stab me if I stab you. Deal?"

"Deal."

Josh is so fucking gentle. He lowers his gaze and gathers the fabric in one hand and threads the needle through with the other. Not once does he remotely come near Tyler's skin. By the end, Tyler calms down, and is smiling as he watches Josh. It's mostly at the top of his head, counting every curl he can see from this angle. More than twice, Tyler stops himself from carding his fingers through Josh's hair. Not now—not _ever_. That thought breaks Tyler's heart. Josh stares at him like he's some neighbor he comes in contact with every morning as they head to work together. Concern hides behind his eyes constantly. Tyler wants to tell Josh he's okay and shouldn't be worried over, but that would be foolish to say, especially now. Josh doesn't know Tyler. And on the other hand, Tyler doesn't know Josh. They are two strangers, nothing more—two strangers in Tyler's living room, celebrating their STI-free status by sewing clothes.

"Like that?" Josh asks, and his tone is the furthest thing from sexual, yet it sends shivers down Tyler's spine. Goosebumps line his arms. If Josh sees, he keeps it to himself.

Tyler runs his hands down the side of the dress, following the curve of his waist, to his hip, ceasing the motion at his thigh. He thumbs the slit and wonders if he were to call up the man again, would he rip apart the dress a second time? Tyler doesn't recall what had caused him to tear it in the first place. Too eager? Too frustrated? Tyler was on his hands and knees as the man took him on the floor of the bedroom, mumbling aggressive things. Tyler was scared, but it didn't stop him from squeezing out two orgasms. "Yeah," Tyler sighs, "like that."

Josh scoots back, his posture a slouching one. "Keep it on," Josh says, picking up the t-shirt and sticking his needle into the fabric. "I… If you want to. You don't have to listen to me."

But Tyler listens to Josh. He sinks onto the couch, his legs underneath him. A strap falling off Tyler's shoulder, it's more like a slip than an actual dress. It shouldn't be comfortable. _He_ shouldn't be comfortable, and neither should Josh. Josh is, though, and that brings a smile to Tyler's face. They fall into silence, enjoying the company of each other without any words. Josh folds each article of clothing before he moves onto the next. "Oh, sick," he comments, holding up Tyler's skeleton hoodie with holes in the arm, "I have one of these."

"Seriously?"

"Yeah!" Josh turns his head to grin at Tyler.

Tyler grins right back.

Josh slips more thread through his needle, Tyler stretches out his leg, and something falls on the other side of the apartment. The thud is uncharacteristically loud, considering the crash pad is carpet and Tyler doesn't own anything remarkably large that could fall over by itself with no push. Josh looks at Tyler, eyebrow cocked as if to ask if Tyler heard that, too, and yes, Tyler did hear that, too, and he's standing, shoving the strap on his shoulder and going down the hall. As he approaches his bedroom, he remembers how he tripped on a cord upon entry and curses for a second time as his foot, once again, catches on the cord. It's long, should have been unplugged after usage—it's unplugged _now_ , since it was pulled from the wall socket due to the fall. And what did fall?

"Holy _crap_ , you play the piano?"

He didn't know Josh followed him into his room. Josh is in the doorway, the sleeve of the skeleton hoodie in a fist, dragging along the carpet. His eyes are impossibly wide in—what? Utter amazement. Tyler gives Josh a funny look before hurrying over to his keyboard, lifting it from the floor and propping it along the wall. "Yeah? So what?"

"That's really cool, dude." Josh invites himself into Tyler's room, invites himself to take a seat on Tyler's bed, and fucking invites himself to continue sewing on Tyler's bed. Hell, he fucking flicks a playful glance toward Tyler and says, "You should totally play something for me sometime," as if it doesn't insinuate he means _now_.

Tyler acts clueless. "Now?"

"I won't stop you if you wanted to play now."

Tyler scowls. Josh scowls. Tyler looks away, and Josh laughs.

Should he play now? Tyler is hardly in the mood, but… Josh wants him to play. This is their second meeting, and Tyler is already so whipped for this boy. He shakes his head as he drops to the floor, crawling on his hands and knees to shove the plug into the socket. Songs flow into Tyler's head—his own, not his, some that haven't reached fruition. What would Josh like to hear? Tyler bites the inside of his cheek to keep himself from bursting into a fit of giggles at the thought of singing a Gregorian chant for Josh. He won't, but what if? Would Josh leave? Tyler would leave if he were Josh. Fucking hilarious.

Tyler sits. His back is to Josh. It's for the best. Tyler doesn't want to see Josh's reaction until the end. Quiet notes play as he tests his limits. The keys haven't known human skin in weeks, maybe a month. Tyler dusted it earlier today. Perhaps it was that and him tripping over the cord that made it tip over. Tyler pops his fingers and ignores all thought of what they could be doing if his piano wasn't a cockblock. Because _obviously_ that's what Josh meant when he said he wanted to "celebrate", right? How else would they celebrate their good sexual health other than have sex? Tyler holds some keys down, ugly sounds, and his head clears. He is his own cockblock.

Josh said Tyler should play for him. Tyler will. Tyler will also sing for him. As a teenager, Tyler hated his voice. It got better, after he started testosterone. When he sings, he is at peace. If he's having a bad day and is somewhere where he's unable to masturbate, he sings, hums—he dances, too, but he doesn't pride himself on that, though.

As he's singing for Josh, Tyler doesn't think about Josh possibly walking out of the room because he hates it so much or that he could step behind Tyler and drive the needle into his throat. Tyler thinks of nothing. It's easier that way. His fingers roam along the keys, his voice high and not available for interpretation. He doesn't like to talk about the lyrics he writes. The meaning is _right there_ , no questions asked.

Josh asks a question at the end. This type of question is allowed. "What's that called? Like, the title?"

"'Two'," Tyler answers, and Josh says, "That was beautiful, Tyler."

A chime leaves his laptop's speakers. Josh's and Tyler's heads turn at the same time, and they both rise at the same time—Tyler checking the notification and Josh doing it subconsciously. There's that expression of utter amazement on his face again. Tyler wants it to be on Josh's face until the end of time.

On his desk, Tyler's laptop is open and showing an incoming Skype call from Mark. Tyler put his status as "away", but Mark knows him better than that. Tyler accepts the video call and proceeds to tell Mark to "fuck off". Mark is faster. He's wolf-whistling and asking if Tyler is going out later. "It's for that guy, right? The one with the 'magical tongue'?"

Tyler grows pale. "I'm hanging out with Josh."

Mark's face drops with Tyler's. "Well, shit, is he with you now? I texted you, and you never fucking replied."

"I don't have my phone on me." Tyler pats his sides. "Obviously."

Josh pokes around Tyler's shoulder, holding onto the hoodie sleeve. Holes litter the arm still. Josh was too preoccupied with Tyler's performance to focus. "Hey," he quietly greets, and waves. Tyler leaves for a second to unplug the piano. Josh stands in front of the laptop as he does this. "So, you're Mark?" Josh asks. He's seen the name on Tyler's phone, blowing it up, just wanting to check if his friend was okay.

God, Tyler hopes Josh doesn't think Mark is abusive.

"The one and only," Mark says. Tyler rolls his eyes. "And you're Josh?"

"Yeah."

Tyler appears. "Mark, did you do that thing I asked you to do? Will, uh, do you need any help?"

Searching for a Josh Dun online can be hell, but maybe with a face to the name, Mark will have a better chance at getting what he needs. "I'll have it to you by this weekend."

The call ends. Josh looks down at their feet. "What's he doing for you?"

"Getting some new software," Tyler says, "for my computer."

"He's good with computers?"

"You have no idea." Tyler looks at their feet, too, tearing his bottom lip apart with his teeth. "Back to the living room?"

"Actually, can we sit in here? I-I, uh, I like it better in here." Josh blushes— _he's blushing_. "It doesn't really matter where we go. I just… as long as you're sitting with me, we could go on the fucking roof for all I care."

Tyler blushes with him. They each are avoiding the other's eye contact. "We'll go on the roof later. Let's stay in here."

"Okay."

*

Never doubting it for a minute, Tyler knows his bedroom is a prime workstation. Being the furthest room from the front door and, arguably, the biggest, it doesn't take long to realize Josh also finds the four walls a safe zone. In his own living room, in Tyler's living room, in his car, on a public bus, Josh oozed relaxation. Here, though…? Tyler can't explain it. Josh is… softer…? Tyler can't explain it. He can't explain it.

Tyler loves his room. It's _his_. And Josh? Maybe it's rubbing onto him. Josh leans into Tyler more, laughs at the most pointless things that leaves his mouth, and never stops smiling. He finishes Tyler's clothes quickly after they relocate, and helps him put them back in his closet, passing each item to Tyler as Tyler hangs it. The backpack with all the evidence of Tyler's sex life is out in the open, but Josh doesn't point it out and ponder what's inside. It's a backpack. It's nothing special.

"Spending the night?" Tyler asks at the same moment Josh is climbing onto his bed.

"Only fair? You spent the night with me."

"Yeah, on the couch."

"Bye," Josh says, sticking an arm behind his head. "See you in the morning."

Tyler smiles, and Josh smiles, and Tyler throws the television remote at him and tells him to find them something to watch. When he returns to the bedroom with his phone in his hand and dirty clothes with the other, the television is still off. Tyler can hear the one in the living room spout some sitcom, but the one in here, where they're presumably staying the night, is off. It's nothing, but suspicions creep up Tyler's arms and force his hair to stand on end. He drops his clothes into the hamper behind the door. "Need help finding the button to turn it on?"

Josh's arm is behind his head. The remote lies by his side, either untouched or touched very briefly. He's touching his chest, scratching it. Tyler stares at Josh's fingers, his own curling around his phone. "Take that off," Josh says. "Get comfortable."

"Was gonna," Tyler mutters, trotting over to the bed and stuffing the charger inside his phone, letting it fall to the floor with a quiet thud. "Take your own advice, maybe."

Josh's already working off his jeans, kicking them to the floor. His t-shirt stays on, a blue color that looks nice against his pale skin and pink hair. Tyler stares at Josh some more, can't help it—oh, _God_ , he can't help it; the hair on his thighs is dark, darker on his shins and calf muscles. Josh bends a leg, knee turned up to the ceiling. Tyler swallows. "Take that off," Josh says again.

Tyler turns around, letting Josh see his back, his spine, his shoulders. His chest can wait. His chest can wait. The dress pools at Tyler's feet. He tries to step out of it, tries to be graceful with it, but his foot gets caught, and he ends up hopping on one foot trying to get the other unstuck. Josh doesn't laugh. He cracks a smile. He doesn't laugh. Tyler sits on the bed, using his feet productively now, shoving the covers down and getting underneath them. Josh joins him and whispers a hushed, "Shit." Tyler's bunny enters the equation. Josh fishes it out and brings it to light. It looks small in his hands, pathetic. Tyler's shoulders roll, and he pulls the blanket up to his chin. "Looks just like mine," Josh muses, eyes crinkling at the edges at his smile. "How funny is that?"

Tyler hums.

Josh sets the bunny between them, a divider, a border, don't go over the line. He's breaking his own makeshift rules; immediately Josh reaches over the stuffed animal, hovering his hand above Tyler's shoulder. His fingers curl around air. "Lemme see," he whispers.

"See what?" Tyler's voice breaks. He doesn't wait for Josh's answer, doesn't know if Josh is even going to answer. Tyler pushes the blanket from his torso, lets it gather at his waist. Josh's eyes fall down, spending time with his neck, and then his chest. There are no scars. There shouldn't be any scars. Tyler feels them. He feels a lot of things—tears in his eyes, the croak in his throat, the shaking in his fingers.

"Sick tattoos," Josh says, and that's it. _That's all_. Josh brandishes his arm out next, twisting it. "Have you seen mine?"

"Pretty colors," Tyler observes, his voice not as lost as he presumed. "I like the other one, too."

Josh nervously laughs and rolls onto his back to look at the heart tattoo on the inside of his bicep. "Had to do something for her." He's back to lying on his arm in no time. Josh takes one of the bunny's ears and rubs it, soft velvet fur. "I love her, you know?"

"I could never do that," Tyler admits. He shifts onto his side and pets the bunny's other ear.

"That's okay," Josh says.

"Is it?" The tears are here, clinging to his bottom lashes and tumbling onto the pillow. "Because it doesn't feel okay."

"It is." Josh frowns. "Can I hug you?"

Tyler nods.

Josh moves the bunny elsewhere and wraps his arms around Tyler's waist. A reflex, Tyler's palms press to Josh's chest. _Get away from me_ , Tyler has screamed before, and shoved and shoved and shoved. He's pushed men onto their asses, onto their backs, and busted skulls and split lips. With Josh, Tyler grips his t-shirt and dares not move. With Josh, guilt does not claw at his stomach and make him feel ashamed. With Josh, Tyler cries without fear.

With Josh, on a bad night like tonight, he doesn't need his bunny.

*

Tyler's dreams are fuzzy. Upon waking, he remembers Josh and only Josh. He doesn't know what happened in his dreams, and doesn't want to know what happened. Josh is awake, his cheek pressed to Tyler's chest, a pillow. They say not a word. Josh lies there, breathing in time with Tyler. Rain falls rapidly, a storm—thunder, lightning. "Is that hail?" Tyler mumbles, and shuts his eyes.

Josh touches him, palm dry and slow. Traveling up like spiders, tickling like ghosts, Josh's nails find Tyler's nipple. They circle the areola. Tyler bites the inside of his cheek. "Think it is hail," Josh says, pushing himself onto an elbow. He strokes Tyler's other nipple, thumbing it until it grows hard under his touch. Tyler squeezes his eyes shut. Blood is in his mouth.

"Josh," Tyler sighs.

"Kind of want to see what else I can make hard."

Dirty talk. Tyler rolls his eyes at most of it, nods, says, "Yeah, yeah, yeah," just to get it over with—it's painful, and not in the good way. Laced with contempt, bad men do most of the dirty talk. They would grab Tyler's face as they said it, looking into his eyes, and he had to swallow vomit and act like it made him the hottest he's ever been. Josh's dirty talk is not that. Josh's dirty talk is simple musings—for now. Tyler doesn't know how Josh sounds in bed. He knows how the Josh in his head sounds in bed, and if any dirty talk would make him so hot he'd melt, it'd be that.

Tyler shivers. Josh reads it correctly. He backs off. "Later?"

Tyler nods. "Later." He leaves the bed to pull on clothing, a baggy t-shirt and flannel bottoms. Hands on his hips, thumbs hooked into the waistband, he says, "If you want to get off, I can get you off."

Josh is aroused. Either that or he's huge. Could be both. Tyler is at a safe enough distance that staring at Josh means he could be staring at his face or somewhere else. It's definitely somewhere else. Obviously. Look at him. Josh is still leaning on his elbow, turned toward Tyler, legs spread, toes curling and uncurling along the bed sheets. "Sit here," Josh says, patting his stomach. "We'll get off together."

"Lemme pee first," Tyler says. "Close your eyes."

He does without question. Tyler nudges open his closet and unzips his backpack. Glancing at Josh, he ducks his hand into the inside pocket, finds what he's looking for, and draws it out carefully. Josh's eyes are closed. He doesn't open them. Tyler closes his closet door and goes to pee.

How long is an appropriate time to hide in the bathroom? Would Josh look for him, or would he fall asleep? Tyler sits on the toilet, head in his hands, pushing back his hair and scratching his scalp and pretending everything is going to be okay—if he acts like it, if he acts like it.

Tyler flushes the toilet, slides his hand down the front of his pants, and makes sure everything is…

He cries. Hands to his face again, shoulders shaking, Tyler cries silent sobs that quake his body and make his head hurt. It's over fairly quickly. Tyler dabs his eyes with the sleeves of his shirt and climbs onto the sink counter. Practice is good. Practice makes the real thing better and not at all prone to screaming matches and violence.

"Okay," Tyler says, sitting next to Josh. "Sorry, I washed my face, too." Tears are the best face wash—or whatever.

Josh stares at him, head lolled on a shoulder. "It's fine. Still want to do this?"

"Totally." Tyler climbs on top of Josh, sitting on his hips, straddling him.

Eyes fluttering shut, Josh groans. "Warmed yourself up, more like."

Tyler's heart races. It's going to explode. "Is that okay?"

"Yeah. Yes. I get it." Josh moves around, hips lifting from the bed. "I do. I really do. Hey, get off me and—oh, yeah, rub against me like that."

A hand on each side of Josh's head, Tyler arches his back and digs his hips into the curve of Josh's ass. Slow at the start, Josh grabs the backs of Tyler's thighs and pulls him in closer. "Rock, don't thrust. What's that— _grind_. Yeah, grind against me." He nods. "Shit, yeah, so fucking hard for me."

Tyler didn't think he'd climax from this, but a packer confined in tight clothing is a miracle in disguise. He rocks his hips into Josh's cock, his testicles, lower to his perineum, and even lower. Josh squirms, fingers clutching at Tyler's pajama bottoms. "Talk to me," Josh says. "What were you thinking about in the bathroom?" He's cocky. Tyler whimpers and hides his face in Josh's neck. Josh fucking purrs. "Tell me, sweet thing."

"Fucking me," Tyler says. "You spread my legs and got between my thighs."

"Ate you out?"

"Y-yeah."

"I bet you taste so good." Josh's hand splays against the small of Tyler's back. "Bet you like it when I tease you. Slow licks, wide licks. Open you up for me."

"Two fingers. You slid two fingers inside me and—" Tyler grabs Josh's hair. "Right there."

"Right there? Yeah? I got you. _Three_ fingers."

Tyler grunts. Josh rubs his back. "How did I fuck you?"

"So good, _so good._ " Tyler's grip is unyielding. "So fucking hard."

"You make me that hard, baby. God, how hard do I make you? Huh? Bet you're touching yourself while I fuck you. Bet you're begging me to touch you."

Tyler shakes his head. "No. I came untouched."

Somehow that's the tipping point for Josh. Thighs around Tyler's hips, Josh squeezes and moans. Tyler's with him, panting in Josh's ear and crying. Josh holds him, rubs his shoulders, tells him it's going to be okay.

"Hey," Josh says, "I think it stopped raining. I have an idea: We get ourselves cleaned up, and then we can go to the movies. Movie marathon. Take your—uh, take _our_ minds off everything."

Tyler sniffles. He nods. "That sounds good."

While Josh leaves to shower at his place and change into clean clothes, Tyler texts Mark. Among the jumble of letters, he tells Mark what happened and what he needs to happen.

_So you want me to lie to you if I find something bad?_

_have you found anything bad?_

_Not yet. Actually I don't think I'm gonna find anything incriminating. He seems pretty chill. Facebook checks out, instagram, twitter. He mostly retweets cat pictures and memes_

_so…_

_Tyler_ , Mark says, _why are you holding back? If he was a client you'd have fucked him about twenty times now_

_he's not a client though, he's not a client_

*

Before Tyler goes down to Josh's car, he sends his client another email. _definitely saturday. i'm sorry for the delays._

*

Josh picks Tyler up around noon. They're both wearing beanies, which cause them to laugh the whole trip to the movie theater. Josh recovers enough to say they could probably squeeze either three or four movies by midnight. "We should sneak in," says Josh, fingers drumming along the steering wheel. "Tickets can get expensive."

"Oh, yeah."

The obvious first choice is a children's film. It makes Tyler cry and Josh hold his hand. No complaints.

No one sees them slip into the theater across the hall. A superhero film plays. It's not even to the midway point. Tyler doesn't know if there is a midway point. Josh takes his hand during a fight scene. No complaints.

For the third movie, they sit in the last row and cower in fear. Josh is too busy hiding his face to hold Tyler's hand. Tyler is too busy getting up and leaving to notice Josh isn't holding his hand.

The restrooms are too clean. Disinfectant plugs up his nostrils and forces him to pull the sleeve of his jacket over his hand to cover his nose. Nicotine and old smoke stick to the fabric. This is better. Tyler pisses and meets eyes with a man—with puffy eyes and all—coming out of the stall next to him. The man chuckles and says, "Stupid movie. My kids made me watch it."

"Sure." Tyler watches the man wash his hands. He chews on the inside of his cheek. "Where are your kids? Still in the theater?"

"Yeah, my wife's watching them." He raises his head and stares at Tyler's reflection. "Why?"

It would be unfair for them to occupy the handicap stall, so they crowd into a normal, albeit smaller, one. Tyler is on his knees, the man's cock down his throat. People walk in and use the toilet, but they don't notice four legs in a single stall.

"Gonna come," the man grunts, and Tyler pops his lips off and stands, undoing his jeans. "Fuck," he hears, and the guy knocks away Tyler's hands to unzip and unbutton. "I don't have a condom."

Tyler has one. He pulls it from his wallet before his pants go to his thighs. The guy puts it on and says nothing else. Tyler sits on his lap, slowly grinding, slowly bouncing. More people walk in, more people pass their stall, and more people ignore the four legs. Tyler peeks through the cracks of the stall door and almost wishes for Josh's face to appear. There has to be a reason why Tyler gets off on the idea of Josh finding him in positions like this, a big cock nestled deep inside him, some stranger's hands holding onto his hips. Tyler comes at the thought of Josh holding his hand.

"So, what?" the man says, dropping the condom into the bin by the commode. "Do I pay you or something? That's what you are, aren't you? I have to pay you." He digs out his wallet and looks inside. Tyler pulls his beanie over his ears. "Okay, fuck, I have thirty bucks on me, but here's a gift card to Starbucks and this place. I think there's enough money on it to get popcorn."

Tyler takes and slides them into his back pocket. "Could always send me some money through PayPal."

"I will. Definitely. Your email?"

Before Tyler heads into the theater, he purchases a bag of gummy bears and a Coke with the gift card the man gave him. It comes out even. Luck is on his side.

Josh is curled in on himself, hugging his knees, his eyes wide with fright. He jumps at Tyler's arrival, then laughs it off. "Sorry, man. This movie's messing me up." He takes a drink from the Coke when Tyler offers it to him. "What's that?"

"Some g-bears." Tyler smiles. "Want some? I found a gift card in my wallet."

Among their gasps, squeals, and bursts of outrage, they finish off the gummy bears.

"Bad movie," Josh says. "Let's watch a damn rom-com next."

They do. Tyler cries, and Josh holds his hand. They've come full circle.

It's cold outside. Josh pulls Tyler to the ground, to sit, to lean against the other as they smoke cigarettes and listen to groups of teenagers and young adults express their expert opinions on the movie they just witnessed. Tyler takes one of Josh's hands in his own, cradling it almost. Calluses have been on Josh's skin for years, proud. Tyler rubs Josh's fingers and parts his lips to let the cigarette lay between them. Josh smiles. "Don't drop it," he says, "because I think you'll end up burning me."

Tyler doesn't drop it. He lets go of Josh's hand to make this happen. "You play an instrument," he mutters, "or you've been doing a lot of _hard_ work."

Josh laughs. "Can't it be both?" He has the cigarette now and sucks on it. His lips are chapped. "You gonna guess what instrument?"

"The drums." Tyler touches Josh's palm, the space right below his knuckles. "It's harder here. Holding. A tight grip."

"God," Josh sighs, flicking ashes from his cigarette. "You know exactly what to say to make my dick ache for you."

Tyler kisses Josh. Weak, Tyler grabs the front of Josh's shirt. Even weaker, Josh cups the back of Tyler's neck and opens his mouth. Tongue, teeth, Tyler's whimpers are soft and _weak_. Josh makes him weak. Tyler's insides are twisting up, tugging at his stomach, his esophagus. "Spend the night with me," Josh whispers, "and I'll show you how hard I can bang my drums."

That shouldn't make Tyler hot, but it does. The cigarette passes to Tyler, who finishes it, who stomps on the butt with the heel of his shoe. "I have work tomorrow. These past few days I had off, so…"

Josh pouts. "Not even for a couple hours?"

"I'm sorry." Tyler runs his hand down Josh's chest.

A wet peck, Josh kisses him again. "It's okay. Today was fun."

Tyler smiles. "Yeah, it was."

*

As he's typing the post that will remain in his queue for hours, until he is to remove it or until it publishes on its own accord, he thinks of his brother. His name is on the post, right underneath their mother's name and phone number. Tyler stares at it for far too long and imagines scenario after scenario of what would happen if he were to actually go missing. Irrational outweighs rational in this case, moving Tyler's mind into a worse headspace than it typically is before he goes to work. In these scenarios, Zack does not show any other emotion than contentment. In a few, Zack is even the one to kill Tyler. It's strange, Tyler concludes, to think Zack would purposefully fake his identity to lure Tyler somewhere to kill him. That wouldn't happen—Mark is thorough. But what if Zack were to use a friend's name and information? Tyler's stomach feels sick. He pushes the bed covers onto the floor with his feet and shoves his face into the stuffed bunny that served as a bad excuse for a dividing line between him and Josh the night before.

But there are other instances where Zack is kind and out for blood. Zack goes out on his own and avenges Tyler, hurting his murderer to the point of near death. With these scenarios, "I don't have a _big brother_ " is on Zack's lips as he punches and throttles whoever dares hurt his… Tyler sighs and shakes his head. Zack would do that, wouldn't he? He'd only care if someone was perpetrating violence toward Tyler if he still considered Tyler his _sister_. And to Tyler, that's gross. That's about the grossest thing he stands to stomach right now.

He reads over the post one more time, then sends it to his queue. Three new messages line his inbox—all spam. He deletes them and reblogs a picture of boys with bruises on their knuckles; he has to keep up his _aesthetic_ semi-regularly. Despite being what some might consider a porn blog, Tyler hardly posts about porn. Sure, an odd post here and there features a naked body—most of which are him—but for the most part, Tyler's blog is very personal. He talks about his day, his clients—if they allow it—and whatever else he decides is important. If he were to take away the sex, Tyler would have no doubt his follower count would be low. He wonders if anybody has blocked him.

Mark texts him. _Be safe_

Tyler trips on his way from his bed. Josh was here yesterday; Tyler had furiously cleaned to get this place presentable for him, and now it's back to its state of disorder and clutter, clothes in his path, TV on, remote lost, sex toys strewn across the room with lubricant either completely empty or half-empty. After Josh dropped him off, a parting kiss to his cheek, Tyler called Mark and told him to get online as soon as he can. "That bad?" Mark asked, and Tyler said, "So fucking bad," as he pulled off his clothing and began to work three fingers inside himself while the chatroom loaded. Josh hasn't texted him. Tyler doesn't expect him to—he did tell Josh he had work.

 _i will_ , Tyler sends back, carefully setting his bunny on a pillow, at the head of the bed. _i'll text you when i get home._

Some clients tell Tyler what to wear: a skirt, something tight, something loose. The client for tonight said for Tyler to wear whatever makes him comfortable, so skinny jeans and a sweatshirt seems as comfortable as any, even if the jeans are a bit too tight and prove problematic to remove. For the most part, Tyler chooses this outfit because he feels _safe_. Nobody stares at him on the bus. Nobody approaches him. Tyler is just another guy on his way to a night shift.

The client lives in a house he's renting with his friends. "Uh," Tyler says, "are they here?"

"Yeah." He kisses Tyler, soft hand to a cheek, soft fingertips stroking the thin stubble there. He laughs at this, and then grabs for Tyler's hand. "Does that bother you?"

"As long as they don't watch. We didn't agree on that."

"Oh, no, no. Just us."

The bed is one of the most miserable things Tyler's lain on in his entire life. He tries to make it his own by shoving pillows underneath him, but the guy is over him in minutes, kissing his mouth and his neck and rubbing his hands all over Tyler's chest and thighs. Tyler groans, out of annoyance rather than arousal, but the guy can't tell the difference. Tyler's shoes are thrown somewhere, and his jeans are shoved aside. A sock is gone. Tyler frowns, and his frown deepens at the guy's actual disappointment to find Tyler isn't wearing panties. Tyler raises a hand at that, pointing, his eyes narrowed. "Okay, let's get one thing straight: I am a boy. Do not refer to my _down there_ as a 'pussy', a 'boy pussy', or a 'bussy'—got it? If anything, I prefer 'cunt', so use that."

A beat of silence. Tyler gauges the guy's reaction, waiting for an excuse to stand and leave the room and get on the next bus away from here. It doesn't happen. The guy's nodding and sliding his fingers in the waistband of Tyler's boxer briefs. "Got it. Can we continue?"

"Go ahead."

When the first words out of his mouth are "Oh, look at that pretty cunt," Tyler rolls his eyes and points at the guy again. "Do you mind if I get on my phone?"

"Not at all."

"Get it for me."

Once his phone is in his possession, Tyler tells the guy to go ahead again. Tyler doesn't think he's going to be blown out of the water with this, no matter the claims of "having a magical tongue". The initial press of lips is like an electric shock—a kiss right to the curls of his pubic mound. A tongue snakes out and ghosts along the curve of his inner thigh, slowly trailing up to rest on the curls again, peppering kisses that leave Tyler breathless. The guy takes Tyler into his mouth completely and hums. Tyler's toes curl, his hips twitch, and he doesn't particularly care about the comfortability level of the bed anymore. Minutes pass before Tyler is able to open his eyes. He pats the guy on the top of his head and says, "You can penetrate me." The guy hums. Tyler gets on his phone.

The first thing he does is send Mark a text: _uh this guy is definitely not someone i would be friends with but thank you for sending him my way_

A reply comes within seconds. _Dude are you already done?_

_no he said it was okay if i got on my phone so voilà_

_But he's good?_

_can barely keep my eyes open it's so good_

_Okay._

Tyler spreads his legs more, the guy's hands coming up to hold Tyler open as he slides his tongue inside. This time Tyler groans, and it's the furthest thing from annoyance.

His phone lights up. It's Mark. _I know you're busy right now I guess, but I found Josh's blog and I think he's talking about you. Here's the link to the tag, chronological order and all that shit_

_holy shit_

Not tuned into the guy's tongue between his legs anymore, Tyler navigates to Josh's blog. He feels hot, nauseous, and thinks he might be able to scurry to the bathroom in time to vomit if it comes down to it. What could Josh be saying about him? Tyler should have asked Mark, considering how it's clear Mark's read through the posts. But Tyler knows Mark would tell him to read them himself because it might not be about Tyler. It might be about someone else. It might be about someone else.

It's not, though. It's about Tyler. The tag Mark sends Tyler to is "re: tyjo". _It's about Tyler._

The very first post is from the bus, when Tyler looked over and noticed Josh typing, hat off, the mop of curls on his head an eye-catching disarray. Tyler had wanted to sit back and see what Josh was doing, wanted to crawl inside and read his mind. What are his secrets? These are his secrets. Tyler reads through them and wants to consume more.

_Went to the bar tonight and met this guy. Super fucking cute. He was wearing a skirt but it was ripped so I'm inviting him back to my place to fix it for him I hope nothing bad happened to him :(_

_Just came to my attention by an anon that I shouldn't assume this guy is… well, a guy. "You might be misgendering her!" Like… clothes aren't gendered? Could still be a guy?_

" _Ask their pronouns" buddy, I wish I could but I have trouble saying my own name sometimes so I'll get the courage later_

_I think something bad happened to him :(_

_I'll fucking tag all these later just… lemme post on my personal blog_

_Update: I fixed his skirt and he went into the bathroom and came out crying but I didn't say anything because it would have made things awkward I'm sure and then this guy kept calling him and I told him I could help him get out of "a situation" and now I feel like I intruded on something and I'm doubting everything and I don't know why I need to shut up he's just some guy I met at a bar and he shouldn't be affecting me like this so good thing I'm a master at keeping all this bottled up_

_Okay I'm tagging all the posts about the guy I met at the bar with "re: tyjo" because I have a feeling I literally won't be shutting up about this dude for weeks_

_I should call him? We haven't talked since we went to Planned Parenthood together and idk I feel like he wouldn't want to talk to me which is stupid because I'm cool… I think_

_Okay anon, just because we went to Planned Parenthood doesn't automatically mean he's a fucking woman so shut the hell up_

_Have you ever, like… really wanted to spend time with someone and you just can't bring yourself to talk to them to make plans? Me rn with Tyjo_

_No… his name isn't Tyjo… who the heck…_

_Tyjo & Jodu_

_That was embarrassing_

_My test results came in today (they were negative but that's no surprise since I haven't been laid in almost a year) and me and tyjo are supposed to celebrate which… sounds hot but he just texted me and said he wanted me to fix more of his clothes. I'm totally cool with that! I'm good at sewing and I want him to feel… I don't know what I want him to feel_

_Okay I'm at his place and it's small and cozy as fuck and he's in his room getting the clothes and he looks really good my heart skipped a beat when he came downstairs to walk me up I can't believe I'm actually gushing like… some kind of weird ass baby_

_Does anyone want an update…? Well I spent the night with him. It was different from last time because we were in the same bed. Anyway um. He can sing. It's amazing. But… I'm having conflicted… mixed… I'm getting mixed signals. some of the clothes he wanted me to sew yesterday was… wow, he looked great but… it was a dress? and I don't know, now I'm regretting telling that anon off for saying Tyjo could be a trans woman but like I said before, clothes aren't gendered so maybe he just likes wearing dresses?_

_I think something bad happened to him but I don't know if it's my place to ask. I shouldn't ask._

_oh and a continuation to that update: we rutted against each other and he 100% has a dick because what else could I have felt against my own dick? Case closed. also we're hitting up the movies later, should be fun_

_He kissed me :) he couldn't spend the night with me but we kissed :)_

_I can't stop thinking about him._

Tyler realizes he can't breathe, his client's tongue is still working its magic, and Mark has asked if he was okay three times now. _yeah yeah_ , he texts Mark, and goes back to Josh's blog, staring at the last post. It was made just today. Tyler drags the sleeve of his sweatshirt over his eyes, flicking his thumb down to scroll to the top of Josh's blog. Skimming over the description, Tyler begins to have trouble breathing again. He reads, "josh, he/they", and _he cries_. Tyler is weeping. Quickly, before his client notices, Tyler lifts his hips from the bed and gasps, faking an orgasm. Along with waiting for phone calls, Tyler is good at deceiving the men who self-declare themselves the best Tyler has ever had.

"Remember to send me the payment," Tyler says, pulling on his clothing with as much finesse as a professional runner. He's out of the house without so much as allowing the guy to say goodbye.

*

Tyler sits on Mark's couch, legs wrapped around himself as the quiet sobs shake through his body. He's keeping it to himself, trying to stifle the noises in the crooks of his elbows. Mark is next to him, editing the post in Tyler's queue. "They're waiting for you." He passes over Tyler's backpack. "I cleaned your room, too."

"Thanks, Mark."

The bus rumbles. Tyler holds his head in his hands. Mark texts him periodically, checking on him. _Did you do something on the side? Someone sent you sixty dollars._

_yeah, i fucked someone in the movie theater bathroom_

_Was it good?_

_decent, i guess, he had his wife and kids there_

_I wouldn't think married men are that good in the sack_

_they have their moments_

Tyler is entering another house friends are renting together. The girl from the bar opens the door, kisses him. She's soft. One of her friends is pulling Tyler to a bedroom, her hair short, her eyes blue. "Let me," she says, and she undoes Tyler's pants and runs her fingers down the front. "Let me," she repeats, and lets another girl kiss Tyler. He doesn't remember her from the night at the bar, but her curves are to die for.

When there are no more clothes to remove, Tyler draws out his fake dicks, lubricant, condoms, and a harness from his backpack. "Tell me what to do," Tyler says.

He fucks each of them, switching out the toys in the harness with a different girl if asked. Tyler is on his back, his knees, his ass. The girls are all hands, touching him, rubbing shoulders, kissing him, kissing each other. A candle burns on a desk. This night has been a bad night, but if anything can turn it around, it'd be this. Every girl moans and pulls at Tyler's hair, telling him to go faster, go harder, _oh, Tyler, your cock is so big_.

At the last girl's climax, they work off Tyler's harness and push him against a pile of pillows. He fists the bed covers and watches the girl who approached him, the one with the soft hair and sad eyes and who knew him but didn't know him, slip on the harness for herself. "Which one do you want?" she asks.

"Pink one," Tyler whispers, hands spreading his legs, holding them apart. More hands stroke his chest, pet his lips, wet lips.

She fucks him, hair cascading off a shoulder. "Want me to call you a slut?" she sighs. "A dirty, fucking slut?"

Tyler nods, back arching. "Yes, yes, yes."

A palm smacks his cheek. A different voice—"You like that cock? You're a dirty boy. Need to be punished. Need to be fucked every night."

"Yes, I _do_. I do." He squeezes his eyes shut. Spit lands on his groin, in his pubes, and fingers that are not his own stroke and stroke and stroke until he's curling his toes and gasping. "Fuck me. I need it. I need it so bad."

"Who am I?" she asks, hips snapping forward as she and her friends watch the pink dick leave and disappear inside Tyler. "Whose cock are you thinking about?"

His hands are here, pushing Tyler's hair off his forehead. And then, his lips, wet like Tyler's, kissing his cheek, kissing his mouth.

"I bet you don't even know his name, slut. Fucked too many guys, don't even know who you really want."

Tyler is crying. He's grabbing at her bicep, thumb rubbing the skin raw. "J-Josh," he hisses, a small groan following. "Oh, _fuck_."

"Who's Josh? The guy you were with at the bar? Who let you wear his jacket?" Slap, slap—she rocks her hips into him, and the same palm as before hits him across the face. "You like Josh, don't you? You want him to fuck you like this, huh? Think he'll like how much of a dirty boy you're being for me?"

Tyler's body shudders. He comes with tears in his eyes. "Thank you," he says, over and over. "Let… let me…" He struggles to sit up, to flop onto his stomach and pull the harness from her. "You deserve this. You deserve so much." And he eats her out, his tongue running over her swollen clit and suckling on her labia. She tosses her head back and moans, giving Tyler her own thanks.

At the bar, she flashed four hundred dollars at him, but tonight, at her house, she gives him a thousand dollars—two fifty from each resident. "It was just talk," she says, a yellow robe wrapped around her body. "You're not a slut."

"I am."

She frowns and hands Tyler his bag, everything he came with safely inside. "I hope it works out with Josh."

On the bus, Tyler cries. Little things that do nothing but irritate his eyes, Tyler switches on his data and deletes the post from his queue. He fires, _i'm going to the bar,_ to Mark and pockets his phone. It's past midnight, but to Tyler, the night has only begun.

It isn't hard to find someone to take him in the bathroom. Suit on, shirt untucked, and five o'clock shadow, he holds Tyler still with firm hands. Tyler leans his forehead against the stall door, listening to drunken fools piss in urinals and talk to their own reflections. The man smacks Tyler's ass. Tyler chalks it up to coincidence that he climaxes at the same time as this.

"Here's fifty bucks," the man grunts. "Do you… uh, my friends are out there? Want them to have a go?"

Tyler licks his lips. "Yes."

The second guy just wants his cock sucked. Tyler uses his backpack as a cushion for his knees. "Shi—yeah. You've got such a pretty mouth. Look at me. I said, lo—there you go. Look at you. You like that, don't you?" He rubs the nape of Tyler's neck with short fingernails. "If you don't swallow, I'm not paying you."

"Yes, sir," Tyler says sardonically, but he doesn't seem to understand sarcasm—or why someone would even use sarcasm while on their knees on the floor of a bar bathroom. Regardless, Tyler swallows. He's kissed immediately after, a tongue tasting, slurping, slurping, God, does Tyler hate that noise.

"How much did he give you? I'll give you a little under that."

"Eighty," Tyler lies.

"Here's sixty. Good for another?"

"How many more?"

"Just one."

"Send him."

During this downtime, Tyler checks his phone. Mark. _Is this because of Josh? You know what, it doesn't matter. Just be careful. Tell me when you get home._

A knock at the stall, the last guy arrives. Tyler doesn't recognize him, not at first. They stand together in that little stall, kissing, smiling. Tyler's arms go around the guy's neck, and the guy cups Tyler's ass, squeezing. That's when Tyler recognizes him. Must have been the hands, the aggression. He tries not to panic because maybe the guy doesn't recognize him.

But he does. "Hey," he says. "Lucky me, meeting you again. Saw you on that bus. Wondered if you knew it was me."

Tyler laughs. He stops. "What do you want? Blowjob? Want to fuck me again?"

"Will it change your mind? You don't have to do this, Tyler."

"Don't say my name." Tyler pulls out a condom from his backpack and hands it over. "Fuck me with that thick cock of yours."

And he does. He does. Tyler is shoved into the toilet paper dispenser during his fight to stay upright. It's hard. Grip tight on Tyler's hips, the guy's manic and hellbent on being the best Tyler's ever had. "Tell me you like that. Tell me you're going to give it up for me. You want me. You want me every fucking day."

The restroom door opens and closes. People walk in, impaired or not, and do their business. Tyler is not the only one getting laid in here, but he is the only one getting paid in here. He rolls his eyes and smacks the guy's hand from his hip. "Damn, stop, you're gonna give me bruises."

He doesn't stop. "Good. You'd be mine."

"You're hurting me."

He slams Tyler into the stall wall, and then into the door. Everything rattles. Tyler's eyes widen. "I just fucking told you to stop— _n'ugh_." He's going faster, moving Tyler with each thrust.

"Never gonna stop. You want this. You want me." He touches Tyler's shoulder, pushing him down.

"Can't bend like that."

"You are."

Tyler smacks away the guy's hands again and again. "Sit down on the toilet. I'll ride you."

He takes Tyler's fingers in his hand, and Tyler thinks it's to change their positions, but it's not, it isn't, it's to break them. He breaks Tyler's fingers and tells him to quiet down. "Don't order me around. Who's the one in charge here? Who has the money?"

It hurts. Everything hurts. Tyler has made over a thousand dollars tonight. He doesn't say this. He stares at his hand, his left hand, his middle and index finger crooked and red and puffy, and he's crying and tugging on the sleeve of his sweatshirt to hide his fractures, to forget about that, to forget about it all. "Please," Tyler squeaks, "can you rub my clit?"

He gets that. Tyler gets that. The guy keeps doing it, his fingertips slow and with purpose, however cloudy it may be, long after he fills the condom. Exhausted, Tyler falls to his hands and knees at the loss of the man's build behind him.

"Sorry for… breaking your fingers. I _did_ tell you to be quiet."

Tyler fixes his pants. He sniffs.

"Here's a hundred bucks."

Tyler takes the bill and sticks it into the inside pocket of his backpack, not meeting eyes with the guy on his way out. Instantly, the guy starts a conversation with someone at the sinks. They talk of the weather and laugh. Tyler is sick. His pulse beats in his fingers, a disgusting sound that sends shivers down his body. Definitely not for the last time tonight, Tyler cries.

Then, quietly, there's a knock on his stall door. It swings open a little; he didn't lock it on the guy's exit. Too fast for his own good, Tyler is about to say he's done for the night, but someone is talking. Their voice is calculated, so fucking careful. "Are you okay? Do you need me to call the police?"

Tyler knows that voice. He's on the floor, face pressing into his arms. The door continues to open, inch by inch, until the person on the other side is not on the other side anymore. They're in the stall with Tyler, on their knees with Tyler, talking, talking, and this voice is the last voice Tyler wants to hear right now.

"Shit, Tyler," Josh says, baseball cap and camouflage jacket and concerned eyes. "I didn't—I don't—Tyler, hell, please tell me that was consensual."

Josh isn't mad. He can't put up the effort to be mad. Tyler wipes his eyes. New holes litter the arms of this sweatshirt. Tyler needs to reapply his deodorant. "It was consensual," Tyler says.

"Do you want me to call the police still?" Josh looks at Tyler's face, the old handprint on his cheek from the girls, the red blotching around his eyes and nose, he's studying everything, so intent, so caring, and Tyler hates himself.

"I need to go to the hospital." Tyler gently takes the sleeve of his sweatshirt and eases it from his hand. Josh winces at the sight of the gnarly fingers. It looks worse since Tyler hid them from view. His ring finger might be broken, too; it's crooked, might just be dislocated.

"I'll take you." Josh picks up Tyler's backpack. Three condoms tumble out, along with the pink dick.

No one moves.

Tyler gathers them into his arms and returns them to his bag, sliding the zipper closed.

No one talks.

They leave the bar, Josh with Tyler's backpack on an arm and Tyler counting backwards from one hundred. If Zack were to find him instead of Josh, Tyler would still be on the cold and damp tile floor. "Zack, please," he would say— _shout_ —and Zack would avoid his eye and go, "I'm sorry, man, do I know you?" The thought is a bad one, one that causes Josh to almost wreck from how loud Tyler screams. Dry heaves take over his body, and Josh pulls over and dives into the back seat of his car. "Hey, here's this plastic bag," he says, and passes it to Tyler, and Tyler takes it and listens to the crinkle and Josh's voice and not Zack because Zack isn't here, he wouldn't leave Tyler in that bathroom because he wouldn't be there. He wouldn't be there.

Josh is here. He's pulled off on the side of the road, passenger side door open as he crouches next to Tyler. Shoe lace untied, that concern in his dark eyes, the night air is cool and freezes the sweat on Tyler's skin. "Okay," Tyler says. "I think I can make it the rest of the way."

"Just tell me, okay?" Josh asks. He nods. "I'll stop. We'll go when you're able."

"Go. I'm fine. I'm fine." Tyler looks ahead. "I'm fine."

One hundred, ninety-nine, ninety-eight, Tyler tries to count backwards and forget he's on his way to the hospital. Every time he inhales, he gets sicker, and every time he exhales, he gets better. A vicious cycle, the pain in his fingers is unbearable. In the time it takes for Josh to drive the rest of the way to the hospital, Tyler makes it to fifty-seven and plans on what to say to Mark when he gets home. He should have Josh text Mark as a courtesy or something, but who knows what Mark will ask him in rebuttal. It makes sense Mark would accuse Josh of doing this, but it doesn't make sense at the same time. Mark knows. He researched Josh, _fucking stalked_ him for weeks. Mark is someone who always has something to say about Tyler's clientele, who needs to only say "No", and Tyler will block the sender. With Josh, Mark did not say "No"; he's confused as to why Tyler is waiting to jump into bed with Josh. "Not a client," Tyler said, and Mark read the message and didn't reply.

Tyler never had a proper relationship—no soft kisses, no hand holding, no cuddles in bed. His first kiss was with a boy at a middle school dance for a dare. His brother saw and told their mom, who gushed and gushed and already began to plan the wedding in her head. This was the time where Tyler wore dresses every day and had long hair that curled at the ends. He was allowed to talk to boys. Girls, though, they weren't allowed to make him blush or his stomach turn into butterflies. That wasn't allowed. It _still_ isn't allowed. Even after he tried explaining to his mother about _him_ , she saw him as her straight daughter. That was preposterous. Tyler cried himself to sleep and the next day, he moved out. It was the final straw.

"At least it's your left hand," Josh remarks, sitting on Tyler's right in the hospital waiting room.

Tyler considers Josh his first proper relationship, if what they have is anything remotely close to a relationship. Sure, they kissed and shared a bed, and Tyler's cried in front of him on more than one occasion, and _yes_ , most would think a relationship should strictly be monogamous, and what Tyler did tonight is _definitely not_ monogamous. But that's beside the point. Is it? Yes. _Yes_.

"Would it—sorry, the answer's yes, but… Okay, do you think you'd be able to play the piano?" Josh's jaw works up and down, chewing a piece of gum that smells of mint chocolate chip.

"How would the answer to that be yes?"

"Sorry," Josh repeats, smiling, "I ended up asking a different question."

Tyler narrows his eyes and turns his hand, palm facing the ceiling. The armrest is stiff, but so is the chair. It smells cold in here. "Hold my hand."

Josh does. "I didn't know if you wanted me to touch you."

"I want you to touch me."

"I am." Josh squeezes Tyler's hand.

 _Touch me, touch me, touch me_ , Tyler closes his eyes.

Three of the fingers on Tyler's left hand are broken—index, middle, and ring. Tyler might as well have broken them all; the nurse tapes his pinky finger to the rest. Out of it, head hurting, Tyler laughs and tells Josh his hand is a mitten. Josh doesn't laugh. Neither does the nurse.

"How did this happen?" she asks, merely curious.

Tyler says, "I had sex with this guy at a bar, and he broke my fingers."

She blinks. Josh stiffens in the chair by Tyler's bed.

"Oh," she says.

"He told me to be quiet, and I—"

"Tyler," Josh starts, but the nurse says, "Do you want a rape kit?" and that shuts Josh up really quick.

Tyler shakes his head. "No. I-I—"

"Honey, it's okay. You're safe."

At the glance toward Josh, the nurse shoos Josh from the room, much to both his and Tyler's disapproval. Lips open and close like a fish, Josh is worried, and Tyler is terrified.

"Was it him? Sweetheart, you can tell me."

Tyler shakes his head again, and then again after that. "It was consensual. It was consensual." Why does no one believe him? "He… he doesn't know." Tyler points at the curtain, where Josh was pushed behind, into the hallway, away, away, away. "But, uh, okay, I'm a sex worker. That's all. We got out of hand. He did. Not _him_ —out there. Not him. Never him."

Josh drives Tyler home. He won't look at Josh. He can't look at Josh. He counts backward, starting with two hundred.

"Want me to walk you in?" Josh drags a slow finger along the steering wheel. "I can sleep on the couch this time."

"Wouldn't downgrade you like that."

Josh smiles.

Tyler texts Mark on his way upstairs. _it's late, i know, you're probably worried. shit happened at the bar. broke my fingers. i'm okay. josh was there. he took me to the hospital. he's spending the night._

Mark sends a winky face, and Tyler pretends he doesn't know what that means.

On the couch, Josh works off his jacket and toes off his shoes. "Just got here," he says, laughing, "but what's the Wi-Fi password?"

This place is a home to Josh. He invited himself in and claimed it as his own. He's shedding his outer layer and showing Tyler pink hair, bare skin, arms toned, colorful, and a warm smile, a smile that melts and brands. "I'll give you mine next time you crash at my apartment," he says, taking the hastily written-on post-it note with the password and inputting it into his phone. Tyler crumbles it afterward, dumping it into the nearest trash bin on his way to the kitchen. Backpack dragging behind him, Tyler turns on the faucet and plugs up the sink once the water runs warm. Josh is quiet from the living room as Tyler kicks his shoes with no care as to where they land. As the sink fills, Tyler removes his jeans and kicks them somewhere, too. The sweatshirt he's wearing is long, comes to his thighs, and hides his boxer briefs. Tyler is comfortable wearing sweatshirts like this, no matter the amount of holes they may have.

Josh remains quiet.

Tyler shuts off the faucet and picks up his backpack. Carefully, he sets it on the counter and rummages inside. One right after the other, Tyler drops fake dick after fake dick into the warm bath. He'll let them soak for a few minutes, and then wash them thoroughly with soap. He does this every time he comes home after a night like tonight. To be fair, he's never had a night like tonight. Tyler isn't sure he wants to have another night like this.

"So," Josh says, "you like it rough, then?"

Hair standing on end, Tyler pushes his sleeves to his elbows. "I get off faster if I'm rough."

"So, do they get off faster, too, if they're rough with you?"

Somehow Josh knows. He might have eavesdropped. He might just know. Tyler grabs antibacterial soap and plucks the pink dick from the water. He struggles with only one hand, but he manages to work his right hand up and down the shaft while holding it weakly with his left. It's suggestive. Josh is watching him, waiting. "Usually."

"But do you like it?"

Tyler wonders if his cheek is still red. It feels like it should be discolored. "Here and there. I prefer…" Tyler shakes his head. "Never mind."

"No, I get it." Josh stands from the sofa and looks confused as to why. Tyler drops the dick back into the water and grabs another one. This one is blue like the sky. "They're never soft with you? Never slow or… intimate?"

"Nobody hires me because they want soft, slow, and intimate." Tyler rolls his eyes. "Okay, yeah, I sometimes get a guy who just wants to watch movies while I play with his hair, but people want me in their bed or their car or _wherever_ to use and take advantage of me. It's all an illusion. They think they can control me, but who's coming home with a thousand dollars in their back pocket? Me."

The trash can lid pops up and gracefully lowers after Josh spits out his gum. "A thousand dollars?" He sounds genuinely surprised.

Tyler nods toward his backpack. He scrubs at a peach prick now. "Yeah. From tonight."

Josh goes toward Tyler's bag and looks inside it. A low whistle leaves his lips when he finds the cash. "Holy shit."

"Eight people."

Josh takes a step back. "What?"

"I think I was with eight people tonight." The peach penis drops into the water with a splash. Tyler counts on a hand. "Yeah, eight."

"Holy shit," Josh repeats. "Tyler, you need to be careful. These men could be dangerous."

"Well, it's good that half the people I slept with tonight were women or, at least, woman-aligned."

"Tyler, you know what I—"

"Oh, yes. You want me to be careful because not only do I have a chance of catching something disgusting from _these men_ , but I might end up getting killed. Right? That's what you meant." Tyler scrubs the pink dick again, harshly. "Good news, Josh: I fucking fear for my life every time I leave the house. You don't know the steps I take to protect myself from _these men_."

"Stop saying it like that."

"Stop saying what like what?"

"You're mocking me. Tyler, all I'm saying is—"

"I know what you're saying, Josh, and—"

"Tyler, it doesn't matter if you're careful, or if you have friends always on the lookout, or if you tell yourself you'll be able to stop something if it gets outta hand. You can be confident in your sexuality and still fucking crash and burn. You can get hurt, and you can get assaulted and violated and taken advantage of—and maybe you won't even be in control of it this time; you might end up getting cheated, or robbed, or stabbed, or killed. Tyler, I want you healthy and happy, and I know you're strong. I know you can take it. You're special, dude, you know that? Really fucking special. All I'm saying is—"

"Josh, shut up." Tyler's fingers hurt, and he wants to hear more of them break.

"Why? Because you don't want—"

"Because I don't want to hear this? Yes! I don't want to hear this! I think about it constantly. I've already heard this from my friends. And do you know what? They don't drag me and put me down and try to make my anxiety about this entire fucking thing worse! They help me. They support me."

Josh covers his face with his hands. His voice is muffled. "Do you think that's not what I'm doing? I'm trying to help you!"

"How? How is _any_ of this helping me?" Tyler spins, flinging water droplets from his fingertips, the sleeves of his sweatshirt dropping to his forearms. "You're making me sick! You're scaring me! How do you know that'll happen to me?"

"Because it happened to me!"

And just like that, the world stops turning. Hell freezes over. Clocks swivel counterclockwise. Tremors push through Tyler's body. He's shivering and pulling at his sweatshirt, the fabric baggy and a furnace and a grave and a lifeline. Josh is leaned against a counter, crossed arms, his eyes set on the ugly green tile of the kitchen floor. Both he and Tyler want it to swallow them.

Tyler doesn't think anything of comfort he can say would be right, so he instead says, "I'm going to take a shower. Do you think you can finish up here?" He points a thumb at the sink.

Josh nods. "Yeah." His voice is rough.

Tyler wants to hug Josh. He doesn't. He pulls open a drawer and tugs out a sandwich baggy. It's awkward, but Tyler knows he shouldn't get his hand wet—or wetter than it already is. As parting words, as he realizes his comfort might truly be needed at this moment, Tyler rubs Josh's arm, his bicep, the bicep with the "MOM", and says, "It wasn't your fault."

"Yeah," Josh sighs, and shakes his head. "I know that now."

In the bathroom, it proves more difficult to shower than Tyler thought. He's managed to one-hand wash his hair before, especially when he was a kid who just got a flu shot and had a sore upper arm for the next two days. Those nurses always stuck him in the right arm, too, no matter if Tyler rolled up the sleeve on his left.

But this, though—it's hard. Instead of his palm, Tyler squirts the shampoo onto his thigh, and then scoops it with his fingers to lather it into his hair. A balancing act, Tyler is lucky he didn't fall out of the tub. Would Josh have checked on him? Is Josh here? Tyler would have left. Tyler would have done a lot of things.

With a towel loosely wrapped around his hips, Tyler stands in front of the sink and smacks shaving cream on his face. He can hear the water run in the kitchen. Josh is here. Why is Josh here? What had they agreed on? Josh was going to walk Tyler upstairs, and then he said he could sleep on the couch. Essentially, Josh invited himself to spend the night, so that means Josh is able to revoke that. He can leave. He should leave.

Tyler runs his razor over his cheeks, his face, replacing the scruff with silk. Shaving his face requires one hand.

A rap on the door comes quietly. "Where do you want these?"

Why isn't he leaving?

Tyler pats his face dry and tosses the sandwich baggy in the trash. "Set it in my room. I'll be out in a minute."

Out in four minutes rather than the verbal one, dirty clothes discarded on the floor, phone tightly clutched in his hand, Tyler pads to his bedroom. Josh is on the bed. The bag is safe and slumped against the footboard, on the floor. Tyler is going to deal with that later. He needs to lie down and never get up.

Josh's phone is on the end table, where Tyler places his when it's on charge. Tyler doesn't move it, just puts it on top of Josh's. From the bed, Josh huffs a soft laugh. He hasn't commented on Tyler's towel, but he might not say anything at all. Would Tyler? Tyler isn't Josh.

Tyler isn't Josh.

"Just because it happened to you doesn't mean it's going to happen to me." Tyler opens his closet and looks inside. One large sweatshirt replaces another. This sweatshirt is newer, given to him by Mark. A bear is on the front. It's long, and Tyler likes it that way.

"You're right," Josh says, a reaction Tyler wasn't expecting.

The towel drops. Tyler moves it closer to the middle of the room, doesn't want it to catch on the closet door.

"Hey," Josh says, and wiggles his fingers. He means it as a gesture of come hither, but all Tyler can see are peppy girls at a bar, smiling at him and wanting more and more and more.

"What?" Tyler doesn't move.

"I wanna eat you out."

Tyler moves, feet dragging, sluggish. "Even after the people I've been with tonight?"

"Like you said, you protect yourself. Besides, you showered." Josh shrugs a shoulder. "I don't slut shame, Ty." He pauses. "You're probably tired, right? Never even thought of that."

"I'm fine." Tyler gets on the bed and pushes away the covers. Gray bed sheets, boring, it relaxes Tyler's head. The box-spring creaks. It sounds like weeping.

"So, can I?" Josh stretches next to Tyler.

"Kiss me first."

Josh does. "You shaved." The backs of his fingers stroke Tyler's cheek. "Did you shave anything else?"

Tyler raises his hand and reminds Josh of his broken fingers. "Can't. And I wouldn't. I don't like it."

Cheeks as pink as his hair, Josh kisses Tyler's chin. "Yeah." He gets on all fours, crawling toward Tyler's legs and nudging them apart to lie between them. "Do you want to…?"

"You," Tyler whispers. "You can."

Josh's lips touch Tyler's thighs. Josh's fingers tease the hem of Tyler's sweatshirt. Josh's smiles and laughs help Tyler not feel dysphoric.

Palms smoothing along the outside of Tyler's thighs, Josh pushes the sweatshirt up, up, up, until it bunches around Tyler's hips. Starting the work day with oral and ending it with oral, despite it all, Tyler wouldn't want to repeat today. He wants to sleep. He's anticipating disaster. Why didn't he tell Josh to fuck off?

No "pretty cunt", no rolling of the eyes, no asking for a phone, Josh says, "We can talk later," and "Do you like direct touches to your clit or, like, around it?"

Tyler touches his chest. If he presses down hard enough, he might be able to will his heart to stop racing. "Around it. Maybe you can work up to it."

"Maybe I can work up to it." Josh scoots closer, arms wrapping around Tyler's thighs. "Tell me if I'm doing something you don't like." He kisses Tyler's vulva, wet things that leave the curls as drenched as if Tyler were wet himself. He _is_ wet. Josh dips the tip of his tongue inside Tyler to taste, then dips more of it inside to check, to see. Tyler groans and shakes his head. "Got it," Josh says, and rubs Tyler's groin. He gives a tentative lick to Tyler's labia, wrapping lips around to suck, to kiss.

Tyler doesn't need credentials to know Josh is far better than the man he had visited today. What's new?

For one, the burning sensation in Tyler's gut is new. He knows what it means. Tyler doesn't want to think about it.

Josh is licking Tyler's clit, slow, watchful eyes on Tyler's closed eyes, mindful of any unsavory reactions. There aren't any. Tyler's heels lift from the bed, toes touching, curling, curling. "Josh," he whispers, "ah."

"Don't have to tell me a thing."

So, he's verbal in the sense of moans and grunts. These are better. These aren't manufactured words recycled and recycled again to any new client with a wad of cash and an hour or two to spare. Tyler mumbles the occasional "Josh", and Josh sucks on Tyler's clit and tugs an orgasm from him. After Tyler finishes shaking, the burning pit in his stomach remains. Go away, go away.

"Josh," Tyler sighs.

"Yeah?"

"Do you want a blowjob?"

"I'm good."

Tyler runs his fingers through Josh's hair, pink hair, pink lips, pink face, everything, everything. "Make me come again. I can take it."

Josh does, and Tyler cradles the back of Josh's head with delicate fingers in pink hair as he rocks his hips and moans and moans and moans.

*

In the dark of his room, his bunny is a pure white. The buttons for eyes are black holes, drawing everything into it, suffocating, killing, and rebirthing. Josh holds it with two hands. "Do you mind?" he asks, and Tyler, next to him, dressed in that large sweatshirt and a pair of boxers, says, "No."

Josh falls asleep that night with his arms around Tyler's bunny and Tyler's arms around his torso.

*

Sun is in Tyler's eyes when he wakes. Josh is gone. Tyler lies on his back and listens for the signs of life. No running water, no footsteps, no television—Josh is gone. His phone isn't hiding below Tyler's, and the bunny is safe on Tyler's pillow.

"Josh?" Tyler calls.

But Josh is gone.

Not a one-night stand, not a one-night stand, Tyler rolls to his phone, his thumb typing in Josh's blog, clicking onto Josh's tag, "re: tyjo" because this is about Tyler, and Tyler's stomach feels sick.

_I don't know what happened._

_He broke his fingers. I'm so glad I was there when I was because… I don't want to think about it._

_He's in the shower. I want to kiss him. I want to love him._

_He doesn't have a dick. It doesn't matter. Nothing matters._

_I'm sorry. I need to get this off my chest and this is my blog and idk where else to go let me have this_

_I should tell him. I didn't tell him. I alluded to it. Idk what to do maybe I should show it to him before he finds it on his own. no you know what? i don't care, it's out there, good luck finding it tyjo, hope you enjoy it as much as I did doing it. It all went downhill from there. Maybe we'll talk about it one day. Maybe I won't be a chicken. Maybe I'll knock on your door tonight and want to sleepover. Maybe you'll come over. I'll fuck you. I won't be hard. I'll be slow. I'll care for you. I'll hold you. I know I won't be the best. I'm not trying to be the best. I'm trying to be me. Crap, that was stupid. I'm an idiot. Why did i leave? I should have let you wake up beside me and we would have had breakfast and spent the day together. Your fingers are broken and yeah, they're on your left hand but still. Your fingers are useless. Oh god, what if you go back to that bar tonight? Please don't go back. Not yet. I can't control you. do what you want. I'm sorry. we'll talk later. I need to tell you so much Tyjo._

The last of these posts was left on Josh's blog thirty minutes ago. Thirty minutes ago, Josh sat on his sofa, his bed, maybe his car, and typed this out. Did he cry? Tyler is crying. He's wiping his eyes and shoving himself to his feet. Fingers hurting, stomach hurting, head hurting, Tyler pushes down on his laptop's keyboard, waking the computer. Dropping into his desk chair, Tyler loads up his blog. He types a post one handed. He's crying.

_for an indistinguishable amount of time, i am taking a break. a hiatus. whatever. i got hurt. i'm fine now. broken bones heal. maybe you'll see me do a cam show here and there, but i will be focusing on getting better during this time. that's top priority. please don't email me. please don't talk to me. please. stay safe._

Mark texts him immediately. _What happened?_

_nothing_

_Tyler_

_josh left_

_I'll be up in a minute.  
Let me in fucker_

Tyler doesn't put on pants. Mark has seen him in far worse states than this, and every time he opens the door, Mark tells him, "I'm proud of you for getting out of bed."

Mark tells him this now, and then offers a hug, which Tyler takes generously. It's tight. Mark sweeps Tyler off his feet, and they go in the bedroom, on the bed, sitting and using their phones, doing their own thing, not talking, nothing, nothing.

"Did you see what Josh said on his blog?"

"No." Mark navigates to Josh's blog. Tyler waits. It takes three minutes for Mark to catch up. "Oh."

"Yeah."

"I… Okay, Tyler, I need to tell you something." Mark puts his phone down. This is serious. "I found it after I told you about Josh's blog. I thought he was too clean. Couldn't even find a single bad thing he said when he was a teenager. So. I did some more digging. And…" Mark sighs. "It was by chance, really. Reverse image searched a selfie, found a screencap of his face in a similar position as the selfie, and… well, it was to a _video_."

Tyler's eyes widen. "Oh. Right. A _video_."

They're quiet.

Tyler breaks it. "Mark, don't tell me you have a problem with porn. I've done porn. You filmed it!"

"Everybody has problems with porn, Tyler. It's just"—Mark rubs the back of his neck—"there was a lot of videos. I didn't find them before because his name wasn't listed anywhere. Which is smart, I think. Is it smart? What did you do again?"

"Didn't give a name. Remember, it was mostly roleplaying. I was a good Christian boy."

"Yeah, Ty, but that was mostly softcore porn. What Josh did was… nothing weird, just… harder than what you did."

"Oh, thank God, I thought you were gonna say he was into tentacles or fursuits or something."

Mark blinks. Tyler smiles.

"So, you watched it."

"What?"

"You watched it," Tyler says. "How else did you know it was different from the porn I did?"

Mark stammers. "Well, I mean, the titles and the video stills and the comments were enough for me to get a grasp at what he did in them."

"Okay." Tyler chews on his thumb. "Is this where I beg you to give me the account name? Or is this where I call up Josh and ask him to watch it with me?" He pauses. "I'm being serious here. I really don't know what to do. It seemed like he didn't care if anybody found it when he posted on his blog. But he must care. He…" Tyler shakes his head. "What do I do, Mark?"

"His name's Spooky Jim." Mark gets back on his phone, and neither of them says another word for the rest of the day.

*

 _hey_ , Tyler sends Josh that night, nearing ten o'clock, dark, cold, _can i come over?_

 _Yeah_ , Josh says, _we need to talk_

But they don't talk once Tyler arrives, all sweats and avoiding eye contact. Josh pops into his room and returns with a blanket under his arm and a pillow dragging behind him, the corner of its case loose in his fist. Tyler wants to decline the offer, wants to say he isn't going to stay long to sleep, but it's ten at night, Tyler rode a bus all the way here, walked in the dark, knocked on Josh's door, and smiled and smiled and smiled. If he didn't want to spend the night, he wouldn't have shown up. He's here, though. He wants Josh. He needs to be near Josh, and Josh is dropping onto the couch next to him, splitting the blanket between them, the pillow flat and comfortable and all the support Tyler needs.

Josh flips through channels, and Tyler's cheek falls to Josh's shoulder, and they sleep while holding hands.

*

Josh makes mini pancakes in the morning. Syrup gets over the gauze on Tyler's hand. After Josh replaces it in the bathroom, he slowly lowers himself to his knees, eyes never leaving Tyler's face. "Can I…?" he asks, and Tyler nods his reply without knowing the full request. It isn't needed. Tyler doesn't want to say no. Josh is sliding his fingers into the waistband of Tyler's pants, pulling them down to his thighs, and burrowing his face in the patch of coarse hair between Tyler's legs. He nips at the juncture of soft thigh and groin and sticks out his tongue, a wide lick, a teasing lick, a slow lick.

Tyler has no control over his mouth. "The night you fixed my skirt, I fucked myself in your bathroom. In here. Bent over the sink. You knocked on the door and asked if I was okay after I came."

Tongue frozen on Tyler's clit, Josh raises an eyebrow. God, does Tyler hate that look. "How many fingers?"

"Three," Tyler squeaks.

"Can I…?"

"Yes, yes, _fuck_ , yes."

Before the approval finishes, Josh is standing and sliding a finger inside Tyler. Tyler's wet already, a mess as he grips the sink with his good hand. Josh's eyes are on him again, testing, teasing, yet careful, concerned, worried. "You okay?"

"Yeah," Tyler whispers. "I… I don't know if I want to do this, Josh." He feels clammy, ready to fall over at any moment. He fixes his grip on the counter and looks down at their feet. He curls his toes. "We need to _talk_."

Josh eases his finger from Tyler, curving them around to rub Tyler's clit. "I did porn," Josh mutters, "and I didn't tell you because I was ashamed of myself for doing it. I don't know why. I was paid well. I liked doing it—at the time. That's what matters, right? If I was happy?" Josh frowns and redresses Tyler, hands on Tyler's hips. "The night I met you, at that bar, I… Earlier that day, a judge denied my request for a restraining order. Said I didn't have enough evidence to support my claim of harassment. Or whatever."

"What did you show the judge?" Tyler asks.

"My porn videos with the guy I was trying to get away from, which was stupid on my part. I should have realized it wouldn't be taken seriously. I liked doing it, I told you that. It's… it was just that one guy. He was despicable behind the scenes. Everybody hated him, but his dick was big, so we put up with him." Josh rubs his thumb into the skin above the waistband of Tyler's sweats. "He would bruise me and hit me and…" Josh shakes his head and closes his eyes. Tyler touches the side of Josh's neck and draws him in closer. Their foreheads bump together. This is good. "The judge said it didn't count because I _must have_ gotten those injuries while filming. Because he, he, he hit me and stuff in the videos, too. For the longest time, I thought I deserved it. It was all part of the act, even long after we stopped filming and continued our relationship off camera. I wanted it. I was a slut that needed to be punished."

"Josh—"

"I thought you should know. Sex work is work, and all work comes with its share of risk. I didn't mean to scare you. I wanted to help. Did… did that help any?"

"Josh," Tyler says, and rubs their foreheads together, side to side, smiling, and making Josh smile. "Thank you for telling me. You are so brave, and I am very proud of you. Even if the court denied you the chance at extra protection, you got out of there. Many can't say that. You are lucky and so, so loved." And for good measure, Tyler repeats, "It wasn't your fault."

As they hug, Josh cries. Tyler holds him all the more tighter.

*

Tyler is wearing Josh's baseball cap. Josh slammed it on his head and kissed his cheek and told him to "keep that pretty head warm". Tyler blushed. He's blushing now, but he blames that on the cold.

"Oh, wait," Josh says, and pulls Tyler from the bus. "Forgot to tell you something else."

"Hm?" Tyler's foot is still poised to take the step onto the bus. "What is it, Joshie?"

"I'm trans. Agender. I didn't tell you because I didn't think it was a big deal." Josh shrugs. "Well, not _really_. I didn't tell you because I knew you wouldn't care, all things considered…"

"Pronouns?" Tyler grabs Josh's arm to keep himself from falling.

"You can use 'he'. I do like 'they', too, when it comes to strangers and people I don't know that well, but you can use 'he'." Josh bites the inside of his cheek. "I don't mind being called someone's boyfriend either."

Tyler blushes more. He smiles. It's the cold weather. It's the cold weather. "We'll see. Text me?"

Josh pats Tyler's bottom and shoves him toward the bus. " _We'll see_."

*

Fixing the bed to sleep that night, Tyler's phone vibrates with a text from Josh. While it's obvious as to where the link will lead him, Tyler asks for clarification.

 _Watch them if you want_ , Josh says, _idc._

 _no_ , tyler says, _i respect you._

Minutes tick by. Then, _Thanks_. And then, _If you're going to watch them at least let me be there with you_

_ok_

They set a time for tomorrow evening at Tyler's. Tyler's room is safe. His bed is soft. Josh curls behind Tyler and nuzzles into the back of his neck. The Josh on Tyler's laptop screen does the same to a girl with fake tits and no body hair. He's fucking her, a hand on her throat as the bed rocks and their groans turn to silence. Tyler's eyes are drawn to Josh's chest, his stomach, his arms, his cock. Tyler pays a lot of attention to that. Josh is watching Tyler now after the third video plays. Josh is getting fucked, getting slapped around, calling the man above him daddy and wanting to be taught a lesson. "I'll be good for you," Josh says, his hands on his cock, hiding it, his eyes closed and his cheek a deep red with handprints. This video stops with no comeshot from Josh, and the pattern continues with other videos of this man and Josh. Josh isn't aroused—no flush to his skin, no drooling, no relaxation, not even an erection.

"How could you take him?" Tyler sits up and finds his bag on the floor, still full with sex paraphernalia. "Mark gave this to me as a joke, and I can only attempt to take it when I'm intoxicated." Big, thick, the monster dick needs to be held with two hands. "Would you take this?"

"No," Josh says. "I can't, Tyler."

"I wasn't offering. Just wanted to show you." Tyler lets it fall to the floor with a frightening thud.

"A lot of lube, and I was definitely high when I did most of the scenes with him. Like, I still had something like an orgasm, but nothing ever came out."

"I haven't seen you come in forever."

"I did, at the beginning videos." Josh turns onto his side. "Lay back down. We have a few more."

The rest are solo acts, lazy jerks of a wrist or fast workings of fingers. Tyler can hear the sound of lube, and he shuts his eyes.

"Have you watched porn with someone before?"

"Not really," Josh says. "Have you?"

"No."

"Do I kiss you now?" Josh touches Tyler's chest. "Is that what I'm supposed to do?"

Tyler nods, lips parting in wait, and Josh does not disappoint. He leans in and presses closed lips to Tyler's wet bottom one. He kisses, lingers, and spit connects them. Leaning back in, Josh kisses Tyler, and Tyler, with trembling hands, kisses Josh back, listening to the end of the video, to Josh's climax, the grunt, the sigh, and Tyler scrambles for purchase on Josh's shoulders, pulling him down, pushing himself up. It's confusing. Tyler laughs. "Got ahead of myself."

"It's okay." Josh smiles.

Tyler thinks about asking Josh to watch him perform. Would Josh sit by and encourage him? Would Josh want to help? Tyler asks. He needs to ask. "Do you want to do a cam show with me? You don't have to get naked. I won't show your face."

"Sure," Josh says, after a moment's consideration. "What do I do?"

"Just sit there. Hand me my phone." Josh does. Tyler texts Mark. "My friend makes sure nothing funny goes on during the chat. He's good at computers."

"Mark," Josh remembers.

"Yeah."

Mark's available. Tyler warns him to not get alarmed when he sees the screen. Mark demands answers, and Tyler gives him none. _Tyler, I know you're trying to get better but damn, if you've got it that bad_ , he says, and Tyler ignores him because he's had a good few days. This is okay. This is fine.

Josh kisses him as the chat room loads. The screen is tilted down. Faces hidden, smiles hidden, Josh strokes the side of Tyler's face with a thumb and whispers something. Tyler hums, pokes Josh in the sides. Josh pecks his forehead. "I like you a lot."

Mark sends a long _oooooooooh_ in the chat and stays silent for the duration of the cam session.

"Get me the pink one," Tyler tells Josh. He shoves off his clothing, flops onto his back, and Josh gives him the pink cock and the lube, just in case. Messages fly by on the chat. _Who's that with you? Show his face. Are you going to fuck him? Fuck yourself on his cock._ And does that make Tyler shudder. Josh reads the messages as they appear, away from view, the skin stretched across his collarbones and neck tinged pink. He's blushing, chest rising and falling. Tyler touches Josh's knee, rubbing the tip of the pink dick against his entrance. "What do you want to do?" His voice is low and can't be picked up on the laptop. "Do you want to fuck me with this or rub my clit?"

Josh takes the dick and slides it into Tyler. One by one, the users celebrate this. They want to see Tyler fucked, doesn't matter with what.

No words necessary, Josh speeds up when Tyler needs it, and slows it for the same reason. No words necessary, Tyler arches his back. No words necessary, Josh moves Tyler's hand away to rub his clit. No words necessary, no words necessary, Tyler cries, and Josh fucks him through a second orgasm. Tyler never wants it to stop.

Shutting his laptop with a foot, Tyler mumbles his thanks. Josh sticks the fake cock in his mouth and sucks, licks, moans around it. "Wow," Tyler says.

"Yeah," Josh says. "Shit, do you have a harness?"

"Oh. Yeah. Yeah." Tyler sits up, a baby deer. "In my backpack."

Josh strips himself of his clothing and fetches the harness. "Is this okay?"

"Yes." Tyler straps it on and points at his backpack. "Get a different penis."

"Uh." Josh is hard, his cock curled up, pre-come rolling down in beads. How long has he been like this? Was he going to ignore it? Would it have been impolite to ask for Tyler's help? Tyler would have helped him. He would have unzipped Josh and slid Josh's cock down his throat and probably would have earned some more money from his viewers. But Josh doesn't want that. He wants Tyler inside him—but Tyler wants Josh inside him, but that can wait. That can wait.

"This one?" Josh asks, the peach one in his hand, small, below average. It's cute.

"You're having it up your ass."

"This one."

Josh uses the lube. Tyler gets himself ready, sitting on his knees and using the lube after Josh. He spreads it all over the cock, maybe too much. They're both using too much. It's dripping down Josh's thighs once he presents himself to Tyler, on his elbows and knees. "Please," Josh says, "be gentle."

"I will." Tyler's cock, his cock, his own fucking cock, goes into Josh easily. Josh grunts, Tyler moans, and he fucks Josh, slow, gentle, so gentle. Fingers, broken and not, wrap themselves around Josh's hips, holding him, hugging him. Tyler hugs Josh and squeezes him and kisses his shoulders and spine, and Tyler never thought for one second he'd be doing this. On his back, his stomach, Tyler has only dreamed of Josh's cock pumping him to orgasm. The alternative was outrageous. Tyler didn't know. He didn't know.

Josh's eyes are wet at the end. "Not crying," he mutters.

"It's okay," Tyler says. "It's okay if you cry. I cry way too much."

So, Josh does it more openly. Tyler cleans him up, moves the laptop to the desk, and nestles in behind Josh. The white, ratty bunny is in Josh's arms. His eyes are closed. Tyler kisses Josh's shoulder. "Need to shower when we get up."

"It's a date."

*

They wake late. Josh says he slept well, but no evidence of such is present. Dark bags under his eyes, lazy motions of his limbs, Tyler suggests they stay in bed longer. Josh shakes his head and continues pushing himself, ever persistent, and says, "I have to be productive."

With the precedent being they bring each other to mind-shattering orgasms, Tyler knows to be careful. Under the steady stream of water, his hand kept dry in a sandwich baggy, he touches Josh's chest, fingers splayed on Josh's sternum. He can feel Josh's heart beat. "Hey," he mumbles, "wash my hair?"

When the shower turns off, Josh climbs out and crawls under Tyler's blankets again, no drying, not attempting to dry. Tyler wraps a towel around his waist and follows Josh into the bedroom. "What happened to being productive?" He pokes at what he assumes is Josh's foot. "You're getting everything all wet."

"I was productive," Josh says.

Tyler blinks. He smiles. "Yeah," he says, "you were. Sleep some more. I'll be close."

After dressing, Tyler stays in his room, tidying up. It might just be him, but Tyler has found it easier to sleep at night and relax in general when the room he was in is clean. While his clients' homes are out of his control, Tyler does go out of his way to make sure he's comfortable—turning his back on a pile of dirty clothing, shutting his eyes if he sees too much clutter in the backseat of a car, being louder than necessary if there are noises he does not like. As stupid as it sounds, Tyler wants to feel safe, and he performs better when he feels he is safe. The illusion of safety could be all that he needs, too—like with Josh. Or was that the real thing? Josh dropped into the stool next to Tyler, wanted a Coke to drink, nothing else, nothing else, oh, your skirt is ripped? Let me fix it, let me fix it, come home with me, and I will fix it. Josh sat with Tyler on the bus, switched seats with him when he felt unsafe, in danger, Josh is an angel, Josh deserves the world. Tyler wants to give him the world.

Stars in the sky, his bed clothes wrinkled and now dry, his bedroom cleaned, toys stored in a suitable and discreet location, cords away from feet's path, no danger, no watch your step, Tyler carefully climbs onto his bed. He touches Josh's back, scratches, rubs. "Need to eat something."

"Go eat something."

"Let's go on the roof. I have some weed."

Josh requires clothing. Boxers, a thermal with the thumbs punched through, and a pair of black sweats to top it off, Josh is warm, and he's the one to roll their first joint. Tyler stuck everything in his backpack, and they raced upstairs. Trying to be quiet, unable to be quiet, Tyler gets to the roof before Josh, and he stands there and feels at home. So fucking cold, Tyler huddles close to Josh for warmth. Anticipation wrecking him, Josh's fingers tremble as he rolls, as he flicks the lighter, as he smiles and laughs at Tyler dragging out his stupid stuffed bunny. It goes in Tyler's lap, as it often does when Tyler is on the roof. Some nights, he stays up here and doesn't leave until the morning sun scratches his eyelids. And some nights, Tyler sleeps, his backpack a pillow, his bunny held close. He wakes with a stuffy nose on those mornings.

"Thought I was supposed to eat something," Josh says, brushing hands with Tyler at the passing of the joint.

"This will help." Tyler breathes and stretches his arm across his lap, and Josh does the same. They hold hands, Josh cradling the broken fingers the best he can. "It helps me," Tyler continues. "Settles my stomach."

"Yeah." Josh takes the joint when it's his turn. "Thank you."

His bones beg for him to stay up here for hours. Josh is drowsy and even snores briefly. He's pulled the hood of his sweatshirt over his head and leaned into Tyler's shoulder. And then, he snores, and Tyler remembers what it felt like to be a kid again, spending the night with friends, sneaking out after dark and jumping at the shadows. Josh wakes on his own and watches Tyler finish off the pot with a puff and a giggle. "Can you cook?" Josh asks, and frowns at Tyler's wrapped hand. "No. I can cook."

Carefully they descend into Tyler's apartment. Josh switches on the stove and pulls out cheese and butter from the fridge. "Gonna fucking jizz from how good these will be."

Tyler rolls his eyes.

Skin fuzzy, mind fuzzy, after he places the bunny on his pillow, he hugs Josh from behind and doesn't let go. Hunched over the stove, fixing them grilled cheeses, Tyler's arms an anchor, Josh cries. Tyler thinks he loves Josh. He doesn't say it.

"So, what do you do?" Tyler's mouth is burned. He can't feel it. He can't feel his tongue. "I don't think I've asked you before."

"You haven't." Josh shrugs a shoulder. "What do you think someone does after coming out of sex work? What are you going to do after you leave sex work?"

"Who says I'm going to stop?"

Josh blinks. "You're right." He peels off the crust and chews on it. "It's embarrassing. I don't want to… tell you."

Tyler blinks now.

Josh sighs. "Okay, I, uh, just… fix clothes for people. Started off with family. A few friends. And then, my mom got her co-workers involved, and they paid me, and… I do that." He doesn't look at Tyler. "Thought I could live off the money I made from porn, but it didn't feel right… I don't know why I thought it would be embarrassing to tell you; I sewed your clothing."

"Do you want compensation?"

"What? Like, a blowjob?" Josh says it like a joke, but Tyler still freezes all the same. He sees Josh's hands on his wrists, holding them, asking him what he's doing, and Tyler was a robot. It was awful, it was monotone and sad and horrifying to hear "thanking you" leave his lips, but he said it, and he regretted it, and he regrets it even now, Josh chomping down on his grilled cheese and not understanding what he uttered. Maybe Josh doesn't know the implications—but he must know the implications. Josh might not have done what Tyler does, but he's been in the industry, and he knows what it feels like to trade sexual favors for objects of desire. So, he does know what he meant when he said it, and that makes Tyler begin to anxiously pick at the corner of his sandwich. Does Josh want a blowjob? It might have been offhand. Tyler's said some questionable things in his life; nothing wrong with that. "Hey," Josh says, not laughing anymore. "You don't gotta give me a blowjob. You're high, I'm high. We need to eat something."

And Tyler picks up his sandwich with one good hand and one bad hand and eats. He doesn't drop to his knees and suck Josh's dick—at least not here, not now. That's for in the morning. That's for when Josh wakes with Tyler's clothes still on his body and a sleepy smile on his face. That's for when Josh says, "I'm so glad you're in my life," and that's for when Tyler's insides get all warm, and he smiles and checks if he can blow Josh now. Obviously Josh says Tyler can because no one, no matter how long—or not so long—they've been awake, won't decline oral sex.

Josh is considerate. He doesn't fuck Tyler's mouth, like some of Tyler's clients. Some of them, despite assuring Tyler they wouldn't do it, held him down and made him choke and gag and, on more than one embarrassing occasion, vomited. If he throws up, the client tends to leave him where he sits. Tyler's lucky if it happens in a bathroom and not so lucky if he's outside and gasping for air and unable to get the taste out of his mouth. One client, big with barbed wire tattoos on his arms, helped clean Tyler up late on a weeknight. He apologized profusely, but the client only shook his head and told Tyler not to worry about it. "Got out of hand," he said, and gave Tyler an extra two hundred dollars. That was good. On the other hand, he's had men with ponytails and glasses and the all-around creepy persona be the cruelest. Those would cheat Tyler out of his money, and Mark would step in and work his magic. Tyler never asked what Mark did. He always got his money.

Josh is considerate. He doesn't fuck Tyler's mouth. He doesn't move at all, just lets Tyler have all the freedom and control. Josh closes his eyes and moans and groans and plays with Tyler's hair. Absent touches and the slow stroke of a thumb along his cheekbone, Tyler loves giving and giving and giving. Dark clothing against his pale skin, Josh looks remarkable, his lips parted and his back arched with his fingers twisted in Tyler's hair, his cock down Tyler's throat. "Oh, oh," he murmurs, "stop, stop—I'm gonna come."

Josh is considerate. He gives warning. Tyler pops his lips off with a smack. "Stop completely?"

Shaking his head, Josh sits up and pulls his sweatshirt over his head, removing layer after layer. "Want to fuck myself on your cock."

Tyler loves Josh. He doesn't tell him.

Spit on his fingers, Josh rubs his hole and waits for Tyler to get ready. Scooping it from the carpet, Tyler tosses the lube at Josh and turns his back on him to fix the harness around himself. "Haven't cleaned the one we used before. Have to pick another one."

"Uh, I think I remember seeing a blue one?"

Tyler pulls it out, holds it up for Josh to assess. At his nod, Tyler straps it in, walking to the bed, a hand wrapped around the base. "Do you want to suck on it?" he asks, fumbling the lube with broken fingers once Josh passes it over. Josh takes it back fairly quickly, noticing Tyler's struggle.

"Nah. I'll eat you out after I come, though." Josh squints, head tilting as he smiles. "How 'bout that?"

"I like that idea."

"I thought it was pretty rad." Josh coats the fake cock with lube and wipes the excess between his legs. Bed frame creaking, stacking the pillows under his hips, Tyler watches Josh straddle him, a knee on each side of his waist, a hand curled around as it holds the dick in place. "Okay," Josh says, and slowly edges the cock inside him. He bites his lip, and Tyler smiles. "Okay," Josh repeats. He lowers himself, his moan loud and breathless at the dick fully inside him, blue and hard and made just for him.

"Okay?" Tyler asks, touching Josh's thigh.

"Okay." Josh smiles, teeth blinding.

Tyler can't believe this. "Want me to do anything?"

"No. Said I was gonna fuck myself on your cock." Palms to Tyler's chest, Josh rocks his hips. Slick, warm, Tyler knows it would be better if he kept his eyes closed. Having his eyes closed would help him visualize this as _real_. Josh would be hot, tight, his hips going in little circles now as he bites his lip and tosses his head back and exposes his throat. Josh's cock is hard, bouncing when he bounces. Tyler watches. He watches and sticks his arms behind his head. "Like the view?" Josh raises an eyebrow.

"Oh, yeah."

"Good." Josh bites his lip again, chewing, bleeding. "Are you, uh, opposed to name calling in bed?"

Josh knows. Josh knows this is different. "Do you want me to call you names?"

"A little." Josh smiles. It's crooked. "Is that okay? Thought I said ask."

"Thank you for asking. If you want me to call you names, I'll call you names."

"Call me a slut." Josh's hands go down to Tyler's stomach, his legs sliding until he's squatting, balls of his feet pressing into the bed sheets. "Be rough with me."

Tyler pushes himself up, sitting, leaning back on his good hand while the bad rests on Josh's knee. "Look at you," he whispers. "You like my cock? Fucking look at you. You're a mess. Dirty slut. Filthy. You're so bad."

Josh wraps an arm around Tyler's shoulders. "Love your cock so much. Fills me perfectly. Made for me." He's grinding down, drool dripping onto Tyler's sternum, wet, gross. Josh is gross. He's touching his nipple. Slow circles, Tyler knocks Josh's hand away to rub it himself. "Tyler, _God_ , feels so good. Gotta tell you something. Not good. Not like this. Used to wear a collar in bed. My boyfriend would tie me up. He'd call me a good boy and give me his dick every night as a snack."

"Fucking slut. Always on your knees. It's a wonder they aren't still bruised. Whore."

"What are you gonna do about it?"

Tyler grabs Josh's hair. It's awkward, with the cast and all. They trip up. Josh blinks. Tyler stammers. "You okay? Do we need a safeword?"

"I don't want to do this anymore."

"We'll stop. Okay? I'm not mad. You don't have to cry."

Nevertheless, Josh cries. He lowers his head and pushes himself off Tyler. "I thought I… I could…"

"You don't have to, Josh. You don't have to… prove yourself to me."

Even now, the lube finds its way into Josh's hand, spilling onto his fingers, prepping himself. "Still want you to fuck me." Two fingers slide inside. Tyler loses his breath. Josh shuts his eyes and carefully adds a third, keeps them inside. "Can't believe you fucked yourself in my bathroom. What did you think about?"

"You calling me a good boy."

"You are. I don't need to tie you up to call you that. You're good. You're so good. Come here. Take that off. Get off with me."

Tyler loosens the harness. He works off the dick. "Do you want this?"

"Keep it nearby." Josh leans his head against Tyler's, sweat, sweaty, hot. Josh is so hot. "Need the lube?"

Three minutes spent between his legs would make his fingers prune. "No, I'm fine."

"Finger yourself for me. One finger."

Tyler jumps the gun. Two fingers sink inside. He clenches around them, bringing a leg to his chest. "Talk to me."

"I have so much respect for you, Tyler."

Three fingers. Tyler kisses Josh's cheek. Talking falters after that. They're too busy fucking themselves, foreheads together, butting heads with each inch closer to their climax. Tyler normally prides himself on being able to come from penetration alone, but this time, his fingers go to his clit, and he rolls the tips of them into it, hips twitching, toes curling. Josh is moaning beside Tyler, his right hand between his legs and his left coming up to grab his cock. "Tyler," he says, and Tyler hums and realizes Josh was saying his name to say his name, nothing else. Nothing else. So, Tyler whispers Josh's name, and they're leaning against each other again, shaky breaths and jerking limbs, and soon they're coming together, and it's everything to Tyler. He curves his fingers into himself again, his labia drenched, his hole open and ready. He wants everything. He needs everything.

Tyler fucks himself, two fingers, and Josh shifts and reaches over to touch Tyler's abdomen. "Heard this helps," he says, and applies light pressure. Tyler goes faster, rubbing his G-spot, moaning loudly, too loudly for the morning hours.

"It helps, it helps, it helps," Tyler says, and feels himself let go, soak the blankets, and he's embarrassed, and he's happy, and Josh kisses him, and it's gross, they're gross.

"If I wasn't so spent, I would slide my dick inside your cunt and fuck you so hard. Hard enough so you can feel it throb. Want to feel you clench around me." Josh shakes his head and sits up. He's exhausted. They need several naps. "Can I see?"

Tyler nods. He hugs the backs of his thighs and holds them to his chest. Josh's fingers are wet on the curve of his ass, but Josh knows safety and being clean, and he keeps them well away from Tyler's vagina. Josh's thumb draws shapes in Tyler's swollen labia. Slowly, mindfully, Josh holds this side of Tyler open, looking, staring, just like he told Tyler. "Tyler, you're so loved."

Tyler closes his eyes.

"And pink." Josh pets Tyler's pubic hair with the pad of his thumb now.

Tyler laughs. It echoes. It's life-changing. "Yeah? Like your hair?"

"Like my hair." Josh lightly pats Tyler's clit. "Let's get cleaned up."

*

They shower. Josh goes home.

But Tyler catches Josh's arm, holds his wrist. "Wait. I… I need to…" He presses his lips together, trembling lips, his heart skipping several beats. "Josh, I-I like you a lot. This isn't just a sex thing. And, and, and I know it's stupid to say that it isn't a sex thing because we've hung out and don't have sex all the time, but there's been a lot of sexual content these past few days, and I don't want you to think me about to ask you this is just me wanting to get you into bed more. Because I really like you, Josh. And I want to be with you. Because you care about me, and you saw me as just another guy when we met in that bar. You didn't try to drag me into a bathroom stall and have your way with me. I mean, I was certainly thinking about it. Like, have you looked at yourself, man? Fucking gorgeous. But, oh—oh, God—I'm screwing this up, aren't I? Man, I'm sorry. I should have planned this out better. But you were leaving, and I was, like, 'no, he's getting away, idiot', so here I am, an idiot, probably scaring you because I don't know how to shut up. But, uh, um, Josh, just—oh, my God—Josh, will you be my boyfriend?"

Before Josh can react, Tyler adds, "You can say no, by the way. I know I'm a slut, and you probably are using me for sex. I never even thought about that. I hope you're not. I like you. And I thought you liked me and not just for my body. Because you didn't know I was a sex worker when we met. You just wanted to fix my skirt. You were so fucking cool. So nice. You treated me with respect. You wouldn't even touch me, and I loved that. You have no idea how many people just grab me and do whatever they want because they think I'm… I'm… I don't know. Why does this feel like a bad job interview? I should shut up. Be my boyfriend."

And again, "Please."

Josh is smiling. He's pulling Tyler close, wrapping an arm around his waist to hold him close and kiss him. "You're okay. And yes. I'll be your boyfriend. But on one condition."

Tyler can hear it now. "What?"

Josh doesn't say it. He's so fucking cheesy. "I'll be your boyfriend only if you be my boyfriend." This is better. This is much better. The alternative would have broken Tyler. He wouldn't be the same. He wouldn't know what to do. Tyler's mind is somewhere not here, and his nod is stunted, and Josh doesn't notice. He's kissing Tyler again and taking out his phone and snapping two photos of them—one where Josh is kissing Tyler's cheek, nose scrunched and eyes closed, and one where their faces are pressed together and smiling with squinty eyes and teeth and bedhead. "Okay," Josh says, "I'll text these to you, and then, like, you can have one as your profile pic on Facebook, and then I can have the other one. Yeah?"

"Josh," Tyler says, "I'm not out."

"Dude, me either. I hardly get on Facebook. I was gonna do all that tonight. Call my mom up before I do it, though. I don't think she'll be surprised." Josh shrugs. "Might even change my pronouns to 'they' on there. That'd be cool."

"Josh," Tyler tries again, "when I say 'I'm not out', I mean that totally. In its entirety. I'm still my siblings' sister and my parents' daughter, and my dead name is on there, and—"

Josh hugs him. "It's okay. We're okay. It was a suggestion."

He sounded so hopeful. Tyler gives a stubborn shake of his head. "No. I want to come out. Pro'ly won't make a big status. Funnier to have my friends and family wonder who _Tyler_ Joseph is and why he's on their newsfeed."

"Want me there when you do it?"

"No." Tyler shakes his head again. "No, I'll be okay."

Josh sends the pictures to Tyler. "Text me when you do it. I'll be right behind you."

*

Tyler hates Facebook. He doesn't remember the last time he logged in. The app isn't on his phone. He waits for it to download as he prepares a bath for his sex toys. Would his mom be online now? Did she continue to post on his wall even after he moved out and said he never wanted to see her again? Of course she would. She's his mother. Mothers on Facebook can't resist sharing posts with their children.

Except Tyler's mom. Tyler gazes at his profile, at his wall, and sees only tagged posts from when he would hang out with Mark—going out to eat, seeing movies, being friends. Mark doesn't do that anymore. The last post was from years ago. Do people abandon Facebook, and then get back on? How long is an acceptable limit? Should he make a new account? No, he concludes fairly quickly, he can't make a new account. He needs his family to see. He can't have his mom still have him listed as her daughter with a name he can never forget no matter how much he attempts at repressing it.

Tyler sighs and dries his hands before picking up his phone. The couch will be his sanctuary as he does this, the text conversation with Josh already opened and ready to be sent numerous messages filled with panic and doubts. Tyler almost decided to text his sister. She seemed to care and, at least, understand at the beginning. But he didn't. He doesn't. He sees that she's active, liking posts about fashion, animals, and the occasional article about trans people—always in favor of them. Tyler doesn't feel bad anymore.

The first thing he changes is his name. Facebook reminds him he won't be able to change his name again in the next sixty days. Why would he want to do that? He stares at the screen, at his profile, at the "Tyler Joseph", and Tyler cries.

He goes to his basic info next and fixes his gender, his pronouns, and sexual orientation. Tyler doesn't know why he's going through an obstacle course now, jumping over hurdles, screaming at the top of his lungs as he races to the finish line.

Obviously, Tyler searches for Josh and adds him. He's accepted immediately. Josh fixed his information, too. He sends Tyler a text— _You're doing good_.

_thanks_

The order of things is important, so Tyler says he's in a relationship with Josh before changing his profile picture. Twenty minutes are required for him to choose which picture he's going to have for the world—really, his family—and settles on the picture where Josh is kissing his cheek. This is undeniable. If his family were to ignore the relationship change, they might think Tyler and Josh were close friends by the other picture. But this one, the kissing on the cheek is clear. It should be clear. Tyler will yell if it's taken any other way than "I am a man who loves other men, and this is my boyfriend, who is also man-aligned and loves men."

Nothing happens after he finishes. Tyler isn't so sure this is good or bad.

Josh texts him again. _I'm really proud of you_

More tears. Tyler sniffs. _did you talk to your mom?_

_Yeah, she said she'll always love me and not to worry about her hating me or judging me_

_must be nice_

_Shit, sorry, Tyler._

_no, it's fine :)_

Tyler goes back to Facebook. Mark likes everything. A great friend.

Josh's text is a welcome heat to Tyler's body. _I told my mom about you and she said you sound like a nice guy and she wishes you the best_

_tell her she sounds like a cool mom_

_Okay_

The second round of notifications he gets is from Josh, which Tyler returns. He laughs to himself and wonders if Josh is laughing, too. Is he on his couch? In bed? Is he pink in the face and teary-eyed and willing his heart to stop overworking itself? Tyler tells himself to breathe.

This fails, backfires, dies.

His sister likes his new activity. She comments on his profile picture, says they look cute together. When he clicks on her profile, he notices how she's changed him to her _brother_. And that… that's it. Out of all of his family, if there were one person to accept him for who he is, it would have been his sister. And she pulls through. And Tyler doesn't care if he's still his parents' daughter or his brothers' sister. Just one change, just one step in the right direction, is all he needs to make it through the rest of the week, maybe even stagger to the end of the month.

He's happy.

*

Tyler dreams of being violently assaulted and finally killed. Josh speaks at his funeral, Tyler's sister standing next to him. They say, "Tyler," and the rest of the room disagrees. They plug up their ears and hum as loud as bees. "Please," Josh says, in front of Tyler's coffin. Tyler is pretty and pale. He's wearing a blue dress. Josh is crying, on his knees. "His name is Tyler, and he was my boyfriend."

His sister comforts Josh, and in the front row, Zack sits. Tense, a scowl on his face, his arms are over his chest. He doesn't want to be here. He has been quiet, no "Tyler", no dead name. He's uncomfortable, teetering on the edge of something— _something_.

The dream goes on and on. They're at the cemetery. Tyler is in the ground, blue dress, dead, dead, and Josh's tears water the grass, make it anew. Years pass in Tyler's dream. Josh stands, Josh sits, Josh's back is to the tombstone, dead name, dead name. Tyler is dead, and Josh visits every week, every month, every year, every two years. Move on, please, but don't forget. Please, please. Josh beats the grass with fists and screams. It is so loud it makes no noise.

There is only Josh. And then, Zack is there. He's staring at the grave, uncomfortable, tense, still, still. "Tyler," he whispers, and Tyler is alive. Tyler is crawling out of the ground, striking Zack's ankles and yanking, yanking, yanking until Zack is shouting and eating dirt and screaming for God to help him.

Tyler wakes up. He shuts his eyes.

*

Tyler goes to get tested. Jenna winks at him and gives him more free condoms.

For all intents and purposes, he's healthy. He can never get used to the overwhelming wave of relief every time he reads his test results.

*

Old friends from school like Tyler's Facebook posts. Friend requests pop up here and there.

Not one family member, close or distant, says anything.

*

Josh visits whenever he can, and Tyler does the same. Where they are doesn't matter; they always end the day with their arms around each other. Nightmares don't plague Tyler if he's at Josh's apartment, so when Josh asks to hang out on a Friday night, Tyler always jumps at the chance to go to Josh's place. Josh doesn't think it's strange. He lets Tyler sit on the floor while he sits on the couch, legs spread, only a t-shirt and boxers on as Tyler kneels between his legs and rests his cheek to Josh's thigh. Most times, Tyler falls asleep like this and wakes in Josh's arms, in Josh's bed. Others, he's coherent and able to walk to Josh's room himself.

Since they're at Josh's place so much, Josh gives Tyler the Wi-Fi password. "Should have done it forever ago," he says, sitting next to Tyler and watching him work off his shoes and socks. Every time Tyler looks at his phone and sees the Wi-Fi symbol at the top of the screen, he feels at home.

When Josh isn't looking, Tyler reads his blog. Nothing new. Gushing about how Tyler is his boyfriend and how happy he is. Tyler sniffles at that, and Josh hears. "What's up?" he asks, and Tyler shakes his head and smiles, and Josh smiles and kisses Tyler.

And Tyler's fingers heal.

The day the hospital gives him the all clear, Tyler cries on the bus ride home.

 _Do you want me to send you some clients?_ Mark texts once Tyler tells him.

Tyler flexes his fingers. _no, not yet. still on a break._

That night, Tyler surprises Josh by showing up at his apartment. Snow is in his hair, cigarettes and phone weigh down his hoodie pocket, and a skirt hugs his hips. Josh's whole face lights up at him. "Tyler! You didn't tell me you were coming over!"

All Tyler needs to do is wiggle his fingers at Josh, and he's in, he's being lifted, spun, his ass cupped, his back rubbed. Josh kisses him. It's everything.

They leave the living room, drift past the bathroom, and turn into Josh's bedroom. It makes sense. Tyler's head hurts from thinking about how desperate he was to get in Josh's bed—it didn't have to be his bed. Tyler was fine with the floor, with getting carpet burn, with Josh fucking him until his hands and knees bled from it. He was fine with the bathroom, with Josh hiking up his skirt and taking him and taking him, and Josh is taking him, clothes rustling, shoving Tyler's skirt up, licking the curve of skin. "Do you want it rough?" Josh asks, his cock already nudging between Tyler's legs, sliding against his clit.

Tyler falls onto his chest, ass in the air. Josh holds him up. "I didn't come over here dressed like this to be treated like a princess."

Josh fucks him. Tyler doesn't last long. He thinks he wets the bed.

"Best fuck I've ever had," he says, trying to catch his breath.

Josh helps Tyler remove the rest of his clothing, dropping cigarettes and phone on the bedside table. "I bet you say that to everyone."

"I do, but they paid me to say it."

They smile, shower, and sleep.

They're up at two in the morning, the television in Josh's room off, the remote thrown somewhere on the floor. Josh is up, and so is Tyler. Neither knows who woke up first. They grab for each other, palms holding biceps, palms sliding along chests, palms lifting hips. "You don't have a lot of scarring," Josh points out, a careful hand on each of Tyler's thighs.

"Keyhole surgery," Tyler replies. "I still have feeling in my nipples."

So, Josh ducks his head and kisses, bites, sucks.

"Not too hard," Tyler advises.

So, Josh eases the load.

Their pace is slow, dragging on and on and on. Lips meeting lips, tongues meeting tongues, Tyler touches the side of Josh's neck, moving his hips when Josh moves his, coaxing his legs apart when Josh crawls closer. His cock is hot, and the tip is by Tyler's entrance, wet, waiting, patient. "Shit," Tyler whispers, and guides Josh inside him, a hand on the back of Josh's thigh, a heel on the small of Josh's back. They each lower their eyes, watching Josh, watching Tyler, watching, smiling, laughing breathlessly. "Feels good, man."

"Thanks." Josh pecks Tyler's temple. "Feels good, too, y'know. You're good." Josh blushes. "Sorry. That was—"

"Appreciated." Tyler pats Josh's cheek and curls his fingers into Josh's jaw. "I love you."

Josh presses their foreheads together. "That's not fair. I wanted to say it first."

"Say what first?"

"I love you." Josh grins. He has to close his eyes. "I love you, Tyler."

"I love you, too, Josh."

Nobody fucks Tyler like this. Nobody wants to fuck Tyler like this. They don't want to waste their money on a gentle fuck; no, they want it rough. They want it fast. They want it over with because this is embarrassing. They have to pay for sex. Spouses and partners are good for sex that's illustrated in magazines and movies—the kind that mean love and respect and mutual agreement. No one pays Tyler for that. They want him on his knees. They want him screaming and spread out and begging for more.

They don't want this. Tyler always wants this, deep down. He wants it rough, and he wants it slow and soft and considerate and tender. He wants to hug Josh around the shoulders with his legs around Josh's waist. He wants to whimper in Josh's ear, wants to clench around Josh's cock and feel it still inside him, wants to kiss and be kissed and love and be loved. He wants it all. Josh gives it to him. He's delicate, thrusting into Tyler at steady beats. It's not heated. It isn't desperate. It's easy. It's how it should be.

Orgasms hit them at different moments, with little space in between. Tyler finishes first, coming at Josh fixing a pillow under his head, and Josh follows at Tyler arching his back to stretch a sore muscle between his shoulders. It's odd indications, but there aren't any bad words. Never. Never.

Josh pulls out, sitting on his legs. Josh is pink. Tyler is pink. "I came inside you. I did it last time, too, but… I should have asked."

"I would have told you to put on a condom if I wanted you to wear one. I never forget protection, Josh. Don't worry."

"Can I… can I taste?"

Tyler nods. Josh lies on his stomach and buries his face between Tyler's thighs. His licks are curious, not trying to bring arousal, but Tyler is a shivering puddle all the same. Josh guides him through it and kisses him after relaxing. Open-mouthed, bodily fluids on their lips, Tyler kisses Josh like he's going to leave tomorrow. That won't happen. Over his dead body, by God, that isn't going to happen.

He's with Josh, and Josh is with him. Josh is with him.

Josh is with him.

*

_Still taking a break?_

_yes_

_Having fun?_

_loads. thank you for asking._

_No problem._

_what were you gonna say_

_What?_

_it said you were typing. what were you going to say?_

_It's nothing. Don't worry about it._

*

_Actually you probably should be worrying about it_

_okay_

_Your brother got a hold of me and wanted to know how you were doing, what you were up to, where you lived._

_it's not jay_

_No, it isn't Jay._

_why didn't he come to me?_  
_what did you tell him?  
_ _mark, did you tell him where i lived?_

_I don't know. You were happy and taking a little break from work. And no._

_okay good_  
_did he call me tyler_

_Yes._

*

Josh pushes a black thread through a needle. One of his eyes is closed, and his tongue sticks out of his mouth. "Got it," he whispers, and hunches over Tyler's sweatshirt, closing the holes in the arms. They're small. Tyler told him to stop fussing over them, but Josh eventually got his way; Tyler is shirtless beside him, having to pull a blanket around his shoulders.

"Has anybody gotten after you for fixing their clothes while keeping your own in tatters?" Tyler points at Josh's knees, poking from the holes in his skinny jeans.

"My mom. She doesn't understand _fashion_."

"I like your knees." Tyler chews on his lip. "Josh, should I talk to my brother?"

"If you want. You don't need my permission." Then, Josh remembers who Tyler is, his family, everything. It slipped his mind. Tyler's smile is lopsided as he tugs on the blanket. "I can see both sides, okay? Reconnecting with family could be good, but if it's too painful, then no. Don't do it. It's up to you."

Tyler leans into Josh, nuzzling into his shoulder, his arm, stopping once he's on his side with his head on Josh's lap. Josh scratches Tyler's head and continues working.

*

_mark, i feel bad for making you the middle man or whatever but you can tell zack where i live_

_Be safe_

*

The nightmares get worse.

Josh is starting to die in them.

Tyler is scared to sleep without Josh now.

*

Tyler is on Josh's lap, in front of his piano. Josh hugs him from behind, eyes closed and listening to Tyler sing about believing in love. At different intervals, Josh snakes his hands toward the keyboard and messes Tyler up, either by smacking his palm against the keys or lightly tapping a key that disrupts the flow of the notes and Tyler's voice. They're having fun and laughing. Josh tickles Tyler periodically, too, keeping him on his toes. "Love you," he says, and Tyler squirms in his lap and tells him to be quiet because chairs don't talk.

In their personal slice of heaven, nothing can disturb them—but this isn't heaven. They're on planet Earth, and on that planet Earth, Tyler lives in a dingy apartment with empty flower pots and vending machines with access to a roof and a close friend a floor down. And in that dingy apartment, he has neighbors who bang on his walls both accidentally and on purpose, and those very same neighbors are prone to intoxication and running down the halls and knocking on doors. There's a knock on his door now, but it isn't from a drunkard. Tyler knows, and he doesn't know. He knows he doesn't want to know.

"Is that your friend?" Josh asks, face screwing up as he remembers a name. "Mark?"

"No, he would have texted me." Tyler stands, Josh's hands leaving an imprint on his hips. Tyler screams—internally, of course. "I didn't get any texts, right?"

"Didn't hear any."

Tyler checks anyway. No messages. He sticks his phone in his pocket and listens to the second rap of knuckles on the door. "Stay in here," Tyler says, and begins his journey out. Mark's told him to get a baseball bat or something equally as harmful and keep it in his room, ready to whip out if an intruder appears. Mark said Tyler needed it. "Creeps," he said, and Tyler rolled his eyes. He wishes he had a bat. He has Josh, and Josh is much stronger than him, but Tyler doesn't see the stranger backing down if a guy shorter than Tyler charges at them with pink hair and a "MOM" tattoo.

"Whatever," Tyler murmurs, and fiddles with the lock on the front door. In his bedroom, he can hear Josh mess with the keyboard, composing a song he will deny writing if confronted. "It's nothing," he might say, and then blush. He'll grow the loveliest shade of red, and Tyler will smother him in kisses with lips the same shade of red as his cheeks.

Before opening the door, Tyler waits for the visitor to knock a third time. He's gripping the door knob, about to twist it, but his muscles aren't cooperating. Hot, sticky, Tyler thinks he knows who wants to see him. He wants to scream. He wants to scream at the top of his lungs, for Josh, for the world to hear, and everybody will come down, and everybody will help him discard the body at the top of the tallest building, laughing as it falls into the pile of the other men Tyler has grown to mistrust in his life. It's a large pile. Tyler doesn't like thinking about it.

There comes the third set of knocks. These are more hesitant, distant, like the owner is debating on coming back at a later date. Tyler chokes on his tongue. It's better to get this over with, so he pulls open the door and peeks around it. He knows it's not possible, but he feels his skin lose pigmentation. His stomach acid rolls around and produces weird sounds. He doesn't want to be here, standing behind the front door as if it were a shield. It is his shield. He keeps it between him and the visitor, the visitor with dark hair and eyes that haven't changed since childhood, eyes that Tyler once confided in when he scrapped his knees and got a boo-boo on his thumb. These eyes have seen Tyler at his worst, but never at his best. Is this his best? He feels pretty damn great, maybe not as great as he should, but it's good. His self-esteem is the best it's been in years, and that must count for something, right? Right.

Those lips open, and words tumble out. Tyler blinks, swears he misheard, because it can't be right. This isn't right at all. Nothing is right. His skin crawls. "What did you say?" Tyler asks, his own voice small and tiny, like he's standing at the bottom of a bottomless pit.

"I said, 'Tyler, hi, can I come in?'" Zack looks regretful. "I can—"

"No, sorry. Come in." Tyler steps backward, and Zack steps forward. One, two, and three and four. "Hello."

They're nervous. The atmosphere isn't awkward, though, just… terrified. They're tiptoeing and avoiding the elephant in the room. Is there an elephant? Tyler can feel it on his chest, making it difficult to breathe. "So…" Zack says, clapping his hands together. He's wearing gloves. "This your place?"

"Yeah."

"And this…" He stares at Tyler, lips parted. Tyler knows the next words, knows they must be "and this is you". He's going to pass out. Zack moves along, taking a step further into the room. Tyler stands off to the side, wrapping his arms around himself. He dares not shiver. He shivers. Zack notices and studies Tyler, eyes going up, eyes going down. Clients look at Tyler like that; Josh tried not to, but he looked at Tyler like that. Surveying, Tyler does his own share of calculations: arousal, repulsion, can he leave? can he run? can he defend himself? His shield of a door is more than an arm's length away. He's useless, shivering in only a pair of jeans and a Mickey Mouse t-shirt. Tears pinch the corner of Tyler's eyes. He's been here before, under his mother's eye, under Zack's eye. They fix Tyler's dress and pat down his long hair. "So beautiful," they say, and Tyler would smile and pretend to be happy. Zack does that even now, turning his body to Tyler. "Hey," he says, and there goes his eyes again. Up and down, up and down. Tyler makes himself smaller. This is not new to Zack. Tyler didn't wear dresses all the time. He ran around with his brothers in the attire he dons today. It's comfortable. He's comfortable. He isn't comfortable now.

"What?" Tyler won't meet Zack's gaze.

"You look great, Tyler. Well, you got dark circles, but you've always had those."

Tyler's smile is genuine. He raises his head and looks at his brother, at Zack, and Zack looks at him, _his brother_. Tyler shuffles his feet along the ugly green carpet and tosses an arm around Zack's shoulders, a loose hug. Zack tightens it. Tyler knows it's because he wants to feel Tyler's chest against his, just to check, but he doesn't say anything. Some things are better left unsaid. However, Zack is curious, and he's ignorant, and he's _trying_. He hasn't said Tyler's dead name, and that means something.

"Saw you on Facebook," Zack says. "Haven't talked to you in a while. I'm gonna be honest with you, Tyler. I thought you died, and Mom just didn't tell us." He rubs the back of his neck. "Even suspected Mom killed you."

"Has she said anything?" Tyler's arms drop to his sides, more open, more welcoming. "Like, offhandedly?"

"Loads of shit. I don't want to… bore you."

"Cool. Cool."

Zack takes this moment of pause to look around Tyler's apartment again. He walks around, carpet crunching, shoes tapping as they go from ugly green carpet to ugly green tile. Thankfully there is no bath in the kitchen sink. Tyler hasn't used a toy on himself—or Josh—in weeks.

"Are you happy here?"

A loaded question. Zack wants details. He'll sit and listen to Tyler all night, if it comes to it. There's nothing but love on his face, and concern, empathy. He's interested. If only he knew he was number two on Tyler's to-call list if he went missing. Does Tyler start with that? Does he say what he does for a living? Mark told Zack he was taking a break from work. Did Zack ask what he did? It isn't on Facebook. Tyler didn't think it was appropriate for Facebook. It would have been easier to begin this conversation if there were fake dicks floating in warm, soapy water.

"Yeah, I'm happy."

"That's good."

It's silent in Tyler's bedroom. Josh is eavesdropping. Tyler doesn't blame him.

"I saw that… uh… you have a…" Zack is struggling to pick his words. Tyler waits. "Partner…?"

"Boyfriend," Tyler corrects.

Zack nods. "Right. I saw the word 'agender' when I was snooping and 'they' pronouns, and I didn't know what they preferred."

"Josh told me 'boyfriend' was fine."

"Got it." He nods again. "Boyfriend. Okay."

Tyler hears movement from his bedroom, furniture shifting. Josh has stood from the piano. Will he be making a grand entrance?

No, Zack is talking. "How'd you meet?"

"Just like you meet anybody. It's not like—"

"Sorry if I implied that. I didn't mean it like that." Zack rubs his face. Josh sticks his head out into the hallway. Tyler gestures for him to go back into his bedroom. Josh gives a thumbs up and disappears.

"I met Josh after I got off work one night. Went to a bar. We hung out afterward."

Zack knows what that means. " _Oh_."

"Not like that."

"Okay." Zack is trying his best. "Where do you work?"

Here they go. "I'm self-employed."

Zack smiles. It's big. "Really? Like, music?" They used to play pretend when they were younger—rock bands, mostly. Tyler would strum on a guitar two sizes too big for him, and Zack would rap. He was good at that.

Time to crush Zack's fantasies.

"No. Sex."

Here they go. Here they go. Zack's face falters. "Sex?" he says, voice low, like it's a secret, like their mom might come out at any moment and berate them. A sandstorm is in Zack's eyes, going from one side to the next, and Tyler can see the gears working in his head, turning, turning, turning, _stop_. "So, I was right."

"What?"

"I was right. I didn't know, but… I told Mom you were flashing your tits to old men on the computer. She believed me. I… Tyler, forgive me. I should have kept my mouth shut and maybe you… you wouldn't be doing this."

Zack assumes Tyler is doing this because there's nothing else. He thinks Tyler is trapped and needs help escaping. Josh had assumed that at first, too, when Tyler spent the night with him when he fixed Tyler's skirt. Josh likened Tyler's ordeal to "a situation", and while that seemed ridiculous at the time, Tyler understands it was only coming from a place of love. Josh has been in situations, and he's gotten out of them, too. Josh is a soldier. Josh is an angel. And Zack? Zack doesn't know a single thing his big brother has been up to since he moved out of the house.

"I do it for fun," Tyler says. "I like it."

" _What?_ "

"I'm a sex worker. I do cam work—not flashing my tits, but I flash other things. I also go out and pick up people—men, women, whoever can pay me. I have a website, and people contact me there. Sort out all the bad eggs and only go for the ones who seem okay. I love doing it. I'm good at it. I've made a lot of money."

Zack looks… traumatized, like he's some kid who walked in on their parents fucking. "H-how many people?" he asks, as if _it matters_.

Tyler shrugs. "Lost count. I get tested every month. Sometimes every other month. I always use protection. I'm safe. I'm okay."

Still shocked. "Does Josh know?" Zack whispers.

"Yes," Tyler says, and leaves it at that. Zack doesn't need to know Josh's escapades. "I'm careful, Zack. You don't need to worry about me."

Zack hugs him. It's tight, and he's lifted off the ground. The mood changes. It isn't awkward. It's pleasant. It's lovely. Tyler is okay. Zack is okay. They're okay.

And Josh goes down the hall. He creeps into the kitchen and rummages around in the fridge. Zack jumps at the noise, but calms after seeing who it is. "Could've told me Josh was here, Tyler."

Tyler opens his mouth to answer, but Josh butts in. "Just woke up." He sets a Tupperware container on the counter, leftover pizza inside it. "Hi, I'm Josh."

"Zack. Tyler's brother."

Tyler smiles. Josh and Zack shake hands. Josh gravitates to the food and pops off the lid. He sniffs the pizza. Zack redirects his attention to Tyler. "I better go. It's late anyway. Cold. Should have called. I'm sorry."

"It's fine." Tyler hugs him again. "Don't tell Mom."

"Wouldn't dream of it."

"Tell Maddy, though. She'll understand."

"Of course."

Tyler hugs Zack more, not wanting to let him go. Zack goes, though. He says it's snowing, and it's going to get worse. "Just wanted to see you," he says, and ruffles Tyler's hair. "Don't be a stranger."

"I won't."

The door closes, Zack leaves, and Josh watches the pizza spin in the microwave on a paper towel. Tyler fishes out his phone and taps on Facebook. He doesn't get on it every day. He should have. He would have seen Zack liking his posts and messaging him. _Hey Tyler_ , he said, _I hope ur ok. We should meet up sometime._

From the kitchen, Josh says, "I don't want to make this about me right now—I really don't—but I stubbed my toe on your piano when I got up, and I seriously think it might be broken."

Tyler's mind is a dangerous place. He doesn't think, just moves. Autopilot. Tyler drops to his knees and inspects Josh's stubbed toe, lightly poking at it with a fingertip. It's red, but not broken. Tyler smacks Josh's ass on his way back to standing. "You're okay, you baby."

"Hurt really bad."

"I'm sure it did. You baby."

They sit on the sofa and watch television as they chew on pizza and sip at Coke. Legs tangled together, Tyler compares body hair. Josh's is darker, but Tyler blames it on how pale he is. He told Josh to take off his pants before they sat down, and Josh obliged with no protest. Tyler shimmied from his jeans, too, and both his and Josh's are in a heap on the floor. Tyler isn't going to pick them up until morning. This place is a pigsty.

"I've never let you give me my testosterone, have I?"

Josh shakes his head. Pizza sauce is on the corner of his mouth. "You'll have to show me how. Maybe I'll do it next month."

"Sounds like a good plan."

"Yeah, that's why I said it."

Tyler rolls his eyes. Josh laughs.

*

Zack changes Tyler to his brother on Facebook.

The nightmares stop.

*

The day after his birthday, Tyler sits Josh down and tells him he's thinking about going back to work. "It's been too long, I think. I need to get back out there, you know?"

They're at Tyler's house, in his room, their safe zone. Tyler's bunny is in Josh's lap, and there's a bong carefully set on Tyler's desk. Birthday present. They already broke it in.

"Going to accept clients through your blog again?" Josh pets the bunny's ear. "Or are you gonna just do cam work? Meet people at bars?"

"A bit of everything. Wanted to start off slow. Cam work tomorrow, then ease my way back into bars and stuff like that."

Josh doesn't say anything for three minutes. "Could I do cam work with you?"

"Sure! Yeah, I don't mind the company."

They smile. Tyler squeezes Josh's knee. "So, you okay with this?"

"Definitely. It's your job, Tyler. I'll support you. Always."

"Always." Tyler snorts. "Okay."

So, tomorrow, Tyler boots up his laptop and does a show with Josh. Josh doesn't want to show his face, which Tyler understands. He angles the screen down, to only see their chests, but then they have Josh on his back and Tyler on top of him, fucking himself on Josh's cock facing the camera and blocking Josh's view of the screen. And sometimes Josh is eating Tyler out, and sometimes his face is hidden in Tyler's neck as Tyler wraps himself completely around Josh. And those are good. Those are great. Tyler's viewers love it. More watch. Tyler wonders if it'll die, fade away, but he gets more money, more fans, and Josh is happy to be getting some every other day.

When it comes to bars, Josh comes with Tyler. They don't sit together. Josh is always watching. The guys typically finish and leave Tyler in the stall. This is when Tyler texts Josh and tells him he's okay. Because maybe more guys come in. Maybe more guys fuck Tyler in bathroom stalls. Maybe Josh only sees Tyler for a minute before he's being whisked away to get a cock shoved down his throat. If Tyler sends Josh an a-okay message, they're okay.

He sends his usual posts to his queue, Josh sitting beside him now as he does it. _my name is tyler joseph_ _,_ the post reads, _and if you see this, then i am in trouble._

His list is different. It doesn't go from his mom, Zack, and then Mark. Tyler puts his mom at the bottom of the list. She still needs to know, even if it will destroy her.

His list is different. Zack is number three now, replacing Mark, who is bumped up a spot to number two. Tyler's sister follows Zack. And Josh? Josh is number one. He's the VIP, the one who Tyler comes home to every night. Josh is his boyfriend, his lover, and he deserves to be the first to know if something happens to Tyler.

Josh hugs Tyler every time before Tyler leaves. It's part of Tyler's ritual. After he types the post and sends it to his queue, Josh becomes an extra limb. He pulls Tyler into his side, to his chest, to whatever is closest, and he hugs him until Tyler is gasping for air. Tyler has had trouble breathing when it comes to this job. There were times where he thought about ending it all, deleting the post from his queue before he exits the client's house, pissing his client off so much that they're forced to punish Tyler in such a severe manner that it'll require hospitalization. Broken fingers are not enough. Tyler wants a punctured lung, a ruptured kidney, a stabbed liver. But these thoughts are few and far between since Josh is in the picture. Josh is breath-taking.

If Tyler is waiting for a client to get ready in their bathroom, he shoots Josh a quick text, and Josh reminds him how great he is, how proud Josh is of him, and how much he is loved. "I love you so much," Josh tells him before he heads out. "You're so fucking special."

Because Josh knows this might be the last time he sees Tyler. He knows the profession is dangerous. He's been there. _He knows_. Despite his happy-go-lucky demeanor, Josh might be the one to text Tyler while he's with a client. _I miss you_ , he'd say, or, _Come home soon there's a new episode of that stupid emergency room show you like to watch_. Tyler can fake orgasms like no one else can, and he's home early on those nights, climbing into bed with Josh and playing with his hair.

On long nights, Tyler staggers in close to three in the morning. These trips require him to pack his bag, and Josh pushes Tyler into the shower while he takes care of the toys. As Tyler washes his hair, Josh washes the fake dicks. Tyler stands next to Josh in nothing but a towel and watches the different colors and sizes bob up. Comical now, Tyler can laugh at this. He couldn't before. He was by himself, but now Josh is here. Josh pretends he's jerking off the toys, and then he quizzes Tyler on what he's done with each toy. Tyler says the peach and the blue ones are Josh's, and the black one is no one's. "Never again," Tyler says. "Wait, you haven't seen the video!"

Tyler shows Josh the video he sent to Mark as a joke. Josh is more scared than amused. "That's like sticking two fists up there. Are you sure you didn't rip? Lemme check." He eats Tyler out, in the kitchen, Tyler leaned against the sink and his hand slipping into the bath water. "Gross," Josh comments, but he's back to sucking Tyler's clit in no time, three fingers nestled in Tyler's cunt as Tyler nudges toward his umpteenth orgasm.

Tyler recovers far more slowly than he likes. He slumps against the counter, the towel once around his hips now on the floor. Josh is washing the toys, the pink one, talking to Tyler, like he didn't just have his tongue inside another man's vagina. "What d'ya use this pink one for?"

"When I think about you."

Josh furrows his brow. "Why? Oh!" He gets it quickly. "Pink hair, right? So transparent." Tutting, he shakes his head and laughs. Tyler likes Josh's laugh.

Tyler's long nights don't always amount to using the toys. Josh washes him on nights like that, massaging his scalp and filling his mind with endless babble. One night, the babble turns into a hate fest, where Josh says he doesn't like bananas, and Tyler nearly jumps from the tub with excitement to find someone with exactly the same views as he does with this disgusting fruit. "Where have you been all my life?" he asks, and Josh blows a raspberry right in Tyler's face and says, "No clue."

There are times when Tyler wonders where he would be if Josh hadn't went to the bar that night. In the chain of events, maybe Tyler wouldn't have met Josh if he didn't decide to do porn, since Josh was brought to the bar after the judge denied his request for a restraining order from the guy Josh met on a porn set. Where would Josh be? Where would Tyler be?

Would Tyler be dead? Would Josh be dead?

He can't think about that. Neither of them can.

Josh has bad dreams from time to time, and he wakes and clings to Tyler. Tyler wakes to this, the hard pressure tightening and suffocating him. Josh cries, and Tyler cries with him. They realize they have the same dreams, of being at each other's funeral, of being mistreated and disrespected and fucking slaughtered by their families. With Josh, it's weird to think about his family not being there for him. From Tyler's point of view, they seemed all right. But also, from Tyler's point of view, he knows that feeling of not being wanted, of not being accepted or supported or loved. Josh clinging to Tyler and breaking into tears is fine because Tyler gets it. That's why he cries with Josh. That's why he welcomes the clings and the squeezes and the all-around discomfort. "I'm here," he tells Josh, and Josh nods. He's embarrassed. "It's okay. You're here with me."

"Thanks." Josh uses Tyler's shirt as a tissue. They laugh about this in the morning.

Mark likes Josh. They hang out together, and Josh finds it easy to joke around him. "You need to get in on this, man. Do some porn. Jerk a guy off in a bathroom."

"I've filmed my share of porn, and… no."

"Oh, what porn?"

"Tyler's."

Josh's eyes widen. "Tyler! You never told me you did porn!"

Tyler shows it to Josh. It doesn't get Josh off. He's more… intrigued, amazed. "Look at you, Ty. Have you watched this? Sure, the concept is a little _bluh_ —sorry."

"No. No, I totally agree." Tyler smiles. "I guess there's just something about some Christian boy praying for something that isn't God."

Josh shoves him. "But, no, seriously, you're beautiful in this, man. Your eyelashes, your skin, your fucking legs. You're so pretty."

Tyler blushes. Josh makes his heart ache; it's a good ache. Not like a toothache, it's more like a gentle throb, the throb of a pulse, the feeling of being alive. And it hurts. It hurts a hell of a lot.

But he loves it. He loves it so much.

"I love you," Tyler says, suddenly, and Josh loses his concentration and lightly stomps his foot.

"Tyler, I could have really fucked this up."

"Sorry."

Josh reverts. He's leaning in, syringe in hand, Tyler in hand, the vial resting on the bathroom sink counter. For the past week, Josh watched videos on YouTube to prepare himself. Tyler showed him how, but Josh wanted to be sure he wouldn't miss. This is important. Tyler is entrusting him with this. It means everything.

"There," Josh says, letting out his breath. "I did it."

"You make me feel so safe." Tyler fixes his pants.

"You make me feel safe, too."

"This is too mushy for me. Come on." Tyler rubs his hands together. "I have an hour before my next client. What do you want to do?"

Josh doesn't have to say a thing. He smiles and tilts his head, cocky, happy, so fucking happy.

Tyler drops to his knees.


End file.
